#and its a 18K monster

[miabebe]

Guess it's time y’all recap chapter 3 hehehe

Well well well, 2 smut scenes and chapter 4 of camp seventeen will be ready hehe 🤭👀

[hyuckiefluff]

dr dreamy | na jaemin

pairing: doctor!neighbor! na jaemin x fem.reader genre & wc: smut, fluff, crack (ish) | 18k summary: in which your infuriatingly hot neighbor ends up getting your box of sex toys delivered to his door by mistake content warning: explicit smut, breast play, oral sex (fem.receiving), brief mentions of sex toy usage, teasing, marking, dry humping, cowgirl (yeehaw), alcohol consumption, monster cawwwk jaemin (i didn’t make this up it’s real) a/n: hiiiii yes yes i know, it’s been forever and ive neglected you all so bad i’m so sorry ! i can’t even use the excuse of being too busy bc i was just in the worst writing slump of my life. but i hope i can make up for all those 10 months of radio silence with this long fic :) also it’s pretty different from what i’m used to writing. for once i wrote it all in lowercase bc i felt like this was lowkey a pretty unserious fic and that was the vibe it required lol it’s also my first time trying to write something “funny” but my humor is not that good still i tried lolz. also i'd like to add that i know as much about doctors as the next person so don't expect much accuracy in that regard. anyways hope you enjoy :)

your leg bounced anxiously as you stared at the photo the delivery guy sent, trying to figure out which door your package had ended up on. every single door in your building was the same plain white with decoration, no plants, no quirky doormat to offer a clue. just a long, boring hallway of identical doors, and somewhere behind one of them was your package. 

"great," you muttered, already feeling the creeping frustration in your chest. 

your phone buzzed in your hand, and you barely had time to glance at the screen before answering. 

"sooo," came minnie's voice, far too chipper for this disaster, "did you like my gift?” 

“i’m gonna strangle you,” you hissed, rubbing your temples. 

“woah, you know i’m not into that freaky shit.” 

“i’m serious, minnie,” you groaned, dragging a hand through your hair. “the package got delivered to a different apartment. you must’ve put the wrong number on it.” 

“no way,” she gasped, already on the defensive. “i literally double-checked. triple-checked, even. it’s apartment 235.” 

"what?” you yelled, nearly dropping your phone.

this can’t be happening. out of all the apartments in your building… it had to be that one?

“minnie…” you took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm, "it’s 236. apartment 236.” 

she paused. “oh.” 

you heard her laugh nervously, and it took everything in you not to throw your phone across the room. 

“minnie…” you groaned, pressing your forehead against the wall. “i swear, if it’s what i think it is based on our last conversation…” your voice trailed off as a sinking feeling settled in your stomach. “my next-door neighbor, minnie. MINNIE. jaemin…oh my god.” 

“wait,” she said, voice sharp with interest. “is that the doctor you said is too hot for his own good?” 

“i did not say that.” 

“you did.” 

“no, i said he’s just… a nice sight for my eyes, okay? in a building full of old people, sue me for appreciating the view.” you rubbed at your face. “but i can’t face him if he saw what’s in that package. i just can’t.” 

“listen…” minnie drawled. “what if he’s into it, though? think about it.” 

“i’m hanging up.” 

“no, wait—” but you pressed the red button before she could finish.  

the most mortifying experience of your 24 years on this planet, and it hadn’t even fully happened yet. but you could see it clear as day: the box, him opening it innocently, and its contents—oh, god, the contents.  

the thing is, you and minnie had a dumb tradition. whenever life got a little too miserable or stressful, you’d send each other gifts. random, stupid stuff. a manga you’d been talking about, or a plushie of your favorite sanrio character. the catch was you could never reveal what it was until it was opened. it was supposed to be a surprise.  

except this time, you were sure minnie’s idea of a "surprise" was directly inspired by your recent rants about being, well… frustrated. as in, the sexual kind of frustration. you had a strong hunch about what she’d sent. 

you sank into the couch, letting out a long sigh. you had two choices: go over there and pray he hadn’t opened it, or stay here and hope the ground swallowed you whole. both seemed equally unlikely.  

as you stared at the ceiling, someone knocked on the door.  

three soft knocks. 

your heart stopped, your body jolting so hard you nearly rolled off the couch. no. no, no, no. not him. please not him. 

you tiptoed to the door like a cartoon burglar, eyes wide with panic. don’t answer. if you don’t answer, he’ll just leave it. you could grab it later. it’s fine. everything’s fine. 

but as you got closer, you heard the softest shuffle from the other side. he was still there. you peeked through the peephole and there he was indeed… jaemin. your very handsome, very distinguished doctor neighbor. standing there, holding your box.  

you backed away from the door like it was about to explode. no, nope, you’d just wait until he— 

you bumped into the side table. hard. and in a moment of unfiltered pain, you yelled, “FUCK!” loud enough to echo down the hall. 

a long pause. 

“hello?” his voice was clear through the door. smooth, polite. 

you shut your eyes so tight you saw stars. letting him think you weren’t home was six feet under now. 

"just get it over with," you muttered to yourself, quickly checking your appearance in the mirror to make sure you didn’t look at destroyed as you felt.

you opened the door with the kind of smile you'd give a police officer who just pulled you over. "oh! good morning, neighbor!" you practically chirped, voice too high, too fake. 

he smiled, sleepy but devastatingly handsome. his scrubs hung perfectly off his frame, and his hair was tousled like he'd just came from a long night shift…which he probably did. he had the kind of face that made you think life has favorites.

“morning,” he said, nodding his head. “sorry to bother you so early, but this…” he held up the box, fingers tapping the side of it. tap tap tap your eye twitched. “this got delivered to my place by mistake.” 

he was so calm. too calm. 

“oh,” you squeaked, your voice barely functional. “uh, yeah! no worries at all! my friend sent it, haha, she’s… forgetful like that. really bad with numbers. haha…” you trailed off. kill me now.

“right,” he said, eyes flicking to the box. “well, here you go.” he held it out to you. 

you reached for it but your hands, slick with nervous sweat, betrayed you. the box slipped.  

“oh no-”  

thud.

everything.  

everything spilled out.  

time slowed. your heart dropped straight into hell. 

boxes. bottles. wrappers.  

and then the pièce de résistance.  

a sex doll. 

a life-size, anatomically correct, male sex doll.

you didn’t know what kind of sound you made, but it was something between a gasp and a whimper. your knees hit the floor as you scrambled to grab everything wishing you could somehow erase the last five seconds of reality.  

“oh my god,” you whispered, cramming the boxes into your arms. “oh my god. oh my god.”  

“uhm,” he cleared his throat and you didn’t even have to look up to know what kind of face he was making. there were no words for this. none. zero.  

“thank you for bringing it to me! bye!” you choked out, voice cracking on the last syllable as you grabbed what you could and slammed the door shut with the force of a hurricane. 

you pressed your back to the door, sinking to the floor, arms full of colorful boxes of shame. you stared at them.  

a vibrator. a bottle of lube. a very, very anatomically correct doll still half in its box.  

"minnie." you said her name like a curse.  

your phone buzzed. it was a text from her. 

minnie (6:18am): how’d it go?  

“hell,” you muttered, tossing your phone across the room. 

you sat there for what felt like hours, the weight of embarrassment crushing down on you. moving out suddenly seemed like the only reasonable option. scratch that, you were moving countries. or planets. was mars habitable yet?

♡ ♡ ♡

for the next few days, life was nothing short of miserable. you called in sick to work because there was no way you could leave your apartment and risk running into jaemin. the idea of seeing him again made your stomach twist into knots. to anyone else, it might seem dramatic—after all, owning sex toys wasn’t some scandalous crime—but the sheer context of it all was unbearable. 

the cherry on top was that the box had clearly already been opened. jaemin had definitely seen what was inside before you’d even dropped it. and the fact that he just pretended everything was normal while standing there with a straight face? it was almost worse. no, it was worse. because now he probably pitied you for dropping it in front of him even after he tried to save you from the embarrassment. 

you groaned, burying your face into the couch cushions. where was the armageddon when you needed it?

you hadn’t left your spot in the couch days, and your body was starting to hate you for it. your back ached from the awkward angle you were lying in, and your stomach growled because you’d panic-eaten the last of your food last night. 

“this is pathetic,” you muttered, grabbing your phone. 

after scrolling aimlessly for a few minutes, you reluctantly opened your food delivery app. you ordered enough food for at least two days and prayed the delivery guy would bring it to your door. but of course, life hated you, so when you got the “can’t find parking” text, you sighed loudly. 

“naturally,” you mumbled, dragging yourself off the couch. 

you threw on the most disguising outfit you could find: a black beanie, your puffy winter coat, and oversized sunglasses. did you look like a wannabe celebrity trying to dodge the paparazzi? sure. but desperate times called for desperate measures. 

you texted the driver a quick be right down and bolted to the elevator, keeping your head low. 

when you reached the parking lot, you practically snatched the bag out of the driver’s hands and mumbled a quick thank you before rushing back inside. you were so close to safety now. 

you stepped into the elevator and leaned against the wall, finally letting out a sigh of relief. but, as fate would have it, you celebrated just a tad too soon. 

just before the doors closed, a hand shot through the gap. you froze. 

you smelled him first.

that cologne. you’d know it anywhere. 

your heart sank as jaemin stepped into the elevator, looking unfairly handsome as usual. you, on the other hand, looked like a fugitive. 

“good afternoon,” he said politely, his voice calm and smooth. 

“hi, uh…afternoon,” you mumbled, holding the bag of food up to your face like a shield. maybe if you hid behind it long enough, he wouldn’t notice it was you. 

“y/n?” 

shit. 

you glanced at him reluctantly, offering an awkward laugh. “oh, hey, jaemin… didn’t realize it was you.” you pushed your sunglasses up onto your head. “these things are so dark.” 

he chuckled, tilting his head slightly. “didn’t recognize you either. are you coming from an event or something?” 

you blinked at him, realizing how ridiculous your outfit must look. “oh, no, i—uh… i have a cold,” you stammered. “just trying to stay warm, you know?” 

“ah,” he nodded, his expression softening. “well, you should rest up. drink plenty of water and maybe some tea with honey, it helps soothe your throat. oh, and—” 

he started rattling off doctorly advice and you could only stare at him, dumbfounded. because, of course, not only was he handsome, but he was kind, too. unfair. completely unfair. 

“thanks,” you said, cutting him off before he could get too deep into his list of remedies. 

he smiled at you again, and for a moment, you swore your heart skipped a beat. “i was actually a little worried,” he admitted, leaning against the elevator wall casually. “i haven’t seen you around the past few days.” 

“oh. uh… yeah,” you said weakly, shifting the food bag in your hands. “just been laying low, don’t wanna get anyone sick.” 

“i see,” he said, his tone light but teasing. “you’re not hiding from me, are you?” 

your eyes widened, and your breath caught in your throat. was it that obvious?

“what? no! why would i be hiding from you?” you forced out a laugh, but it sounded fake even to your ears. 

he raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was fighting a grin. “hmm. just checking.” 

“yeah, it’s because of the cold” you muttered, fidgeting with the handle of the food bag. “it’s nothing serious, though. i appreciate the concern.” you tried to sound nonchalant, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you. 

“good to hear,” he said, his eyes still on you. “but still, if it doesn’t get better in a few days, you should probably see a doctor.” 

“right. definitely,” you nodded quickly, eyes glued to the little numbers above the elevator door, silently willing them to move faster. 

but of course, the universe hated you lately. the elevator suddenly jerked to a stop, too soon for your floor. you flinched, and before you could even begin to hope it was just a regular stop, the overhead lights flickered once, then twice, and then… nothing. 

darkness. 

“oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” you groaned, tilting your head back against the cold elevator wall. 

“well,” jaemin’s voice came through the darkness, and you could hear the grin in it, “this is bad timing, huh?” 

“this is my villain origin story,” you muttered, crossing your arms as you slid down to sit on the floor. “this is how i finally snap and become one of those people who yell at customer service workers.” 

he laughed, and you hated how nice it sounded. like melted chocolate. warm, smooth, and way too easy to get addicted to. 

“guess we’re stuck for a bit,” he said, sitting across from you. you could only make out the faintest outline of him in the dim emergency lighting. “not a bad person to be stuck with, though.” 

“yeah, lucky you,” you deadpanned, cradling your bag of food. 

there was a pause. not an awkward one but it felt somewhat intimate and you didn’t like it. not because you felt uncomfortable but because you were scared of embarrassing yourself further.

“hey,” he spoke up again, softer this time. “about the other day…” 

no. absolutely not. this was not happening. 

“nope,” you cut him off, waving a hand like you could physically swat the topic away. “we don’t talk about that. ever.” 

“but i think we should—” 

“we don’t, jaemin,” you said firmly, pointing at him like a scolding parent. “it never happened. you never saw it. i never dropped it. in fact, none of it exists. it was a shared hallucination caused by gas leaks in the building. that’s my story, and i’m sticking to it.” 

he snorted, hiding a laugh behind his hand. “gas leaks?” 

“yep. toxic fumes. real health hazard,” you nodded, doubling down. “you should probably get management to check that out, doctor.” 

“i’m a neurosurgeon, not an HVAC technician,” he shot back, amused. 

“same difference,” you muttered. 

another pause. you could feel him looking at you, even in the dimness. 

“for what it’s worth,” he started slowly, like he was choosing his words carefully, “i wasn’t judging you.” 

“good,” you mumbled, picking at a loose thread on your coat. “because i’m not like ashamed of it, just… mortified, you know?” you finally glanced up at him, feeling a little braver in the low light. “there’s a difference.” 

he nodded, eyes warm and understanding in a way that made your chest ache. “there is.” 

you sighed, letting your head fall back against the wall. “i’m moving. i’ve decided.” 

he laughed, full and bright. “you’re not moving.” 

“i am, actually,” you insisted. “gonna change my name, get a new identity. maybe move to the mountains. live off the grid. it’s the only way.” 

“you’re ridiculous,” he said, still grinning. 

“you say that like it’s news.” 

silence settled over you both again, but this time it was lighter. less suffocating. you could hear him shift, stretching his legs out in front of him. he tapped his fingers against his knees like he was keeping time to a song only he could hear. 

“so,” he said after a beat, voice low and casual. “was that, uh… the first time you ordered something like that?” 

your whole face went hot.

“jaemin,” you warned. 

“what?” he asked, the picture of innocence. “just curious.” 

“don’t make me call those toxic fumes back in here,” you threatened, pointing a stern finger at him. 

he threw his head back laughing, and despite yourself, you smiled too.

"fine, i won’t bring it up anymore,” he said with a tired smile, rubbing the back of his neck. his fingers pressed into the muscle there, and he winced slightly. 

“you okay?” you asked, glancing at him with concern. 

“yeah, just a long day at work,” he replied, rolling his shoulder like it’d been bothering him for hours. 

“yeah, i can imagine. the life of a doctor must be pretty hectic,” you said, eyes flicking to his hands as they worked over the tense muscle. “but you gotta know your limits too… you’re not made of steel, you know.” there was a hint of worry in your voice, and you tried not to let it show too much, but judging by the way he glanced at you, he caught it. 

he looked at you for a moment, longer than usual, before nodding. “you’re right,” he let out a short breath. “i guess i’ve been burying myself in work lately. but it’s hard not to when it’s this time of the year… i’m a pediatric neurosurgeon and too many kids get sick and hurt during the summer.” 

“oh, definitely. i’m not even a kid and i always get sick in the summer,” you joked, hoping to lighten the mood. 

he laughed at that, his grin easy and genuine. “never too late to have fun during the summer,” he said, leaning back against the elevator wall. “just not too much fun. can’t party too hard with a cold.” 

“do i look like the kind of person who parties too hard?” you raised an eyebrow at him. 

“hmm,” he tilted his head with a slight (cute) pout. “i wouldn’t know. we don’t know each other that well.” he glanced at you, eyes flicking over you just once before smirking. “but you’re young and pretty, so why not?” 

your heart stumbled in your chest, and you fought to keep your face neutral. did he seriously just call you pretty so casually like it was a fact of life?  the dim lighting of the elevator became your saving grace, hiding the warmth that crept up your neck. 

"want a piece?" you asked, anxiously trying to change the subject, raising the bag of fried chicken in your hands. you shook it lightly to emphasize. "i have a feeling we're gonna be stuck here for a while, and it's still warm."

he raised an eyebrow, his grin widening into something a little playful. “don’t mind if i do.” 

he moved closer, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed, and you set the bag down in front of you both. “dig in,” you said gesturing with your hands toward the chicken.

“so… you’re a doctor…” you said after a couple minutes of eating in silence. 

“last time i checked, yeah,” he replied, glancing over at you with a faint smile. 

“so why’d you move into this shabby building with elevators that haven’t been serviced since the stone age?” you asked, pausing to tear into a chicken wing with zero grace or subtlety.

he stared at you, and you couldn’t tell if it was because of your question or the feral way in which you were eating. 

“i’m a resident, so i don’t make nearly as much as people think. plus, med school debt is no joke. this place fit the budget.” 

“oh,” you muttered, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “sorry if that sounded kinda judgy. people tell me i’ve got a chronic case of big mouth syndrome.” 

“it’s fine,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “at least you’re honest.” 

“what about you?” he asked, tilting his head toward you. 

“me? oh same story, different font. drowning in student debt, and this place was… available,” you said, popping another wing into your mouth. 

he nodded, and after that, the conversation picked up, flowing so naturally you forgot you’d technically only been speaking to him for a week. before that you had only shared neighborly greetings in the hallway.

you didn’t even realize how much time had passed until the elevator jolted suddenly, the lights flickering back on with a low, mechanical hum. 

by then, the bag of chicken was empty, and you knew more about jaemin than you ever expected to learn in one night.

♡ ♡ ♡

“i thought elevators had some kind of emergency backup power for blackouts,” minnie said, her face pixelated on your phone screen. 

“yeah but this building’s like 60 years old,” you muttered, adjusting the camera so she could see you better. you were sitting on the floor, painting your toenails a fresh shade of lavender. “the fact that it even has an elevator is a miracle.” 

“true, true,” minnie nodded, chewing on a piece of candy. her eyes lit up suddenly. “by the way, why does your sexy doctor live there? i thought doctors were supposed to be loaded.” she propped her chin on her hand. 

“he told me he just started his residency,” you explained, blowing gently on your freshly painted nails. “and he just started a new job at the hospital. they don’t get paid that well when they’re starting out.” 

“hmm,” she hummed knowingly. “so you spend a few hours stuck in an elevator with him, and suddenly you’re an expert on the medical field, huh?” 

you rolled your eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. “it’s called having a normal conversation, you should try it”  

“i’m just saying,” minnie teased, tossing a gummy bear into her mouth. “you went in there hiding from him, and you ended up sharing chicken and life stories. i see you.”  

“there is nothing to see,” you shot back, tossing a pillow at your phone screen like she could actually feel it.  

“mm-hmm,” she hummed, leaning forward “so, did he mention it?”  

“mention what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.  

“the box,” she said ominously, dragging out the word like it belonged in a horror movie trailer.  

you froze. “he tried to,” you admitted, tapping your fingers on the pillow in your lap. “but i shut him down real quick.”  

“oho, look at you,” she said, leaning back impressed. “miss assertive, didn’t think you had it in you.”  

“i have more pillows to throw, minnie. don’t test me.”  

“yeah, yeah, violent tendencies aside,” she waved you off, completely immune to your threats. “i hope this new confidence means you’re finally putting my gifts to use.” she tilted her head with the most innocent smile, which made it all the more sinister.  

your face went hot. so, so hot.

“i haven’t,” you lied, voice a little too high.  

“liar,” she sang, leaning closer to the camera. “i can see your shifty eyes. you definitely tried it.”  

“okay, fine, i did!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “but it was a disaster.”  

minnie perked up with curiosity. “oh?”  

“yeah, oh,” you repeated, scratching your head. “it just… didn’t hit. it felt weird and i got frustrated, so i just gave up. plus i don’t know where you got that vibrator from but it almost burned my girlypop”  

“rookie mistake,” she sighed shaking her head dramatically. “that’s why you need someone with experience to help you out.”  

your brows furrowed. “what are you even saying right now?”  

“i’m saying,” she grinned like the devil himself, “that you have a perfectly qualified medical professional living right next door. i’m sure dr. mcdreamy wouldn’t mind giving you a consultation.”  

you blinked once. “minnie, you’re actually sick in the head.”  

“oh, please.” she tossed her hair over her shoulder, rolling her eyes. “he’s hot, he’s single, and you’ve already done half the work. you were sitting there eating fried chicken, and you’re telling me he kept throwing compliments at you? we all know you eat chicken like a truck driver, and he still thought you were pretty. use your resources, babe.”  

“he was hungry and stuck. he was probably grateful i offered him food. what else was he supposed to do?”  

“it’s so much more than that,” she said, holding up a hand, a clear signal for you to shut up and pay attention.  “i know when a man is laying the foundation and trust me, he’s building a whole mansion with your name on it.”

“you’re fully overreacting right now.”

one of minnie's strengths was that she wasn’t one to give up easily. but that also ended up being one of her flaws. you knew for a fact she wouldn’t drop this jaemin thing until she proved he had a thing for you.

“seriously, though,” she continued, leaning in so close her face was the whole screen. “he’s a doctor which means he’s like literally obligated to help people. it’s in the oath or something.”

“your point is..?”

“you know” she raised her brows suggestively “experienced hands, medical precision, and he owes you one for that chicken dinner. it’s the perfect setup.”

“you’re insane… like actually seek help.” you shook your head, trying to sound firm, but you were laughing too much to sell it.

“i’m serious,” she laughed along, “you literally blush whenever you talk about him. oh and you can’t even say his name without smiling.”

“that’s not true,” you said, shifting your position on the couch like that would somehow make your denial more convincing.

“mmhm,” she squinted her eyes, clearly not believing you.

“and for the record,” you added, jabbing your finger at the screen, “not every attractive man i meet is getting sexualized in my head. i’m not a beast.”

“no, you’re just a liar,” she shot back with a wide grin. “be real for like two seconds. i can see you smiling so hard right now.”  

“you can’t see anything,” you said, voice sharper now. “it’s the pixelation. your wifi is ass.”

“nice try,” she said, drawing out the words. “i know a bashful grin when i see one.”

“you stress me out,” you muttered, twisting the cap back on your nail polish with a little too much force.

“and yet, you call me every day.” she propped her chin on her palm, smile pure menace.

“i guess i’m a masochist,” you sighed, leaning back on the couch. “tragic, really.”

“mmhm, tragic is right,” she said, eyes narrowing into little crescents. “because now i’m gonna be your maid of honor at this wedding i didn’t even prepare for.”

“goodbye, minnie,” you deadpanned, reaching for the end call button.

“goodbye, future mrs. mcdreamy.” she winked at the camera, and before you could curse her out, she hung up.  

you sat there for a second, staring at your phone’s home screen, lips pressed tight.  

delusional.

she was delusional.

but that didn’t stop you from thinking about jaemin’s stupid grin. the way he’d looked at you while eating fried chicken, casual but present, like he was really there in the moment with you. the way his eyes lingered, just for a second too long.  

you shook your head, shoving the thought away like minnie’s words had wormed their way into your subconscious.  

nope.

you capped the nail polish, shoved your phone aside, and focused on literally anything else.  

♡ ♡ ♡

over the next few days, something shifted. not in a big, dramatic way but in a way you could feel.  

jaemin wasn’t just the polite neighbor you exchanged pleasantries with in the hall anymore. now, every time you saw him, there was this unspoken acknowledgment hanging in the air like: we shared fried chicken in a broken elevator for three hours.

 this new attitude towards you was giving you whiplash. he was… extra friendly now. he smiled more, spoke to you first, acted like you were both in on some kind of inside joke. it wasn’t bad… but it wasn’t normal either.  

“morning, y/n,” he’d say as you both waited for the elevator, eyes crinkling like he’d already thought of something funny.   

“morning,” you’d reply, your gaze locked firmly on the floor. the tiles were suddenly fascinating. 

but then you’d catch the faintest trace of his cologne—the same one you’d inhaled way too much of in the elevator—and suddenly, the tiles weren’t so interesting anymore. so you’d try to sneak a glance or two, and when he wore his doctor’s coat and glasses, you couldn’t help but ogle. he was so ridiculously handsome. everything about him practically begged for you to admire. his sharp jawline, his dark eyes framed by impossibly long lashes, his lips always pink and effortlessly moisturized, his hair neatly trimmed in the back but just a bit longer in the front, falling perfectly right above his thick brows.

and he had the most captivating smile, so white it almost blinded you, and despite thinking he was the serious type at first, you quickly realized he was incredibly expressive. he communicated so much with just his brows, and it seemed impossible for him to speak without a subtle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. like what was so funny? that you were crushing hard on him and it was kind of disrupting your life?

he was also too relaxed around you. way too relaxed. how was he so calm when he’d seen you in your most unhinged states? meanwhile, you could still feel the ghost of that moment hovering over you like a neon sign flashing "dildo girl spotted."

the third time you ran into him that week, you almost turned around to take the stairs, but you weren’t fast enough.  

“caught you,” jaemin said as soon as he spotted you, his grin sharp but not unkind. “thinking of bailing on me?”  

you paused like you were actually considering it. “don’t flatter yourself,” you said, walking forward like you’d planned to all along. “the stairs are just bad for my knees.”  

“oh, is that right?” he asked, stepping aside with a sweep of his hand. "good thing elevators exist, huh?”  

“lucky me,” you muttered, slipping inside. he followed right after, too close for comfort but not close enough to call him out on it.  

“lucky me,” he added, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, head tilted just so. "would’ve missed you otherwise."  

you had to bite back the cough that almost escaped when he said that, his lazy smile firmly in place like always.

you glanced at him, squinting. "what's with you lately?"  

“what do you mean?”  

“this,” you gestured at him vaguely. “all this… talking. you weren’t like this before.”  

“maybe i just needed an excuse,” he said with a nonchalant shrug “and three hours in an elevator with you was a pretty good one.”  

you blinked, momentarily at a loss. what were you even supposed to say to that?  

“did you rehearse that?,” you muttered, turning away before he could see the corner of your mouth twitch.  

“why, is it too corny? but you’re smiling,” he pointed out, you could hear his smile.

“no, i’m not.”  

“you are,” he said confidently, leaning in just a little like he was trying to see it up close. “it’s cute.”  

you flinched back, eyes wide. “don’t say that.”  

“why not?” he grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself. “it’s true.”  

“oh my god.” you turned so far away from him it was a miracle you didn’t phase through the wall. “stop talking.”  

“can’t,” he said, all too happy to keep going. “we’re closer now. shared chicken trauma and all that.”  

“that is not a thing.”  

“it is,” he nodded confidently. “you can’t just sit in a powerless elevator with someone for hours and pretend you’re strangers afterward. that’s, like, scientifically impossible.”  

“scientifically impossible?” you repeated, eyebrows raised. “you’re making things up.”  

“and here you are listening to all of it,” he shot back, tilting his head toward you, his gaze a little too sharp. 

checkmate.

you opened your mouth, ready to respond, but your brain was buffering.. 

"that’s what i thought," he said, his voice low and too satisfied, just as the elevator dinged.  

the doors opened. he didn’t move right away, gaze lingering on you as if he was waiting for something…or maybe just seeing how long you’d hold it.  

“you talk too much,” you muttered, stepping out with your head high like you had the upper hand.  

“I think you like it,” he called after you, the amusement in his voice so obvious you could practically hear the grin on his face.  

your heart did that annoying skip thing, and this time, you didn’t have an excuse for it.  

♡ ♡ ♡

things only got worse after that.  

jaemin, apparently, had decided that you were fun to mess with now.

he wasn’t over-the-top about it, though. no, he was too smooth for that. he played it cool, weaving little comments and actions into your interactions. a smile that lingered too long, leaning in just a little too close when he asked a question, throwing casual compliments like they didn’t mean anything.  

it was unfair, really. he’d gone from the quiet, polite neighbor, the one who worked long shifts at the hospital and mostly kept to himself,  to an actual menace in the span of three days. and somehow, you were the target of all of it.

the first time it happened, you brushed it off as coincidence. the second time, you thought maybe he was just being nice because you shared food with him so perhaps he thought that he owed you. by the third time, you realized: this man was having fun at your expense.

“new hair?” he asked casually one evening as you struggled with your keys outside your door.  

you froze, glancing up at him in confusion. “what?”  

“your hair,” he repeated, nodding toward you. “looks good.”  

your brows furrowed. “it’s the same as always,” you muttered, turning back to the lock that was absolutely refusing to cooperate.  

“huh.” he tilted his head, as if he were genuinely surprised. “then i guess it’s just you.”  

what does that even mean?!

your hands fumbled, and the key slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor.  

jaemin’s laugh was soft but unmistakably amused. “you okay there?”  

“don’t you have patients to save or something?” you snapped, crouching down to snatch the key off the ground before he even had the chance to get it for you.

“off duty,” he shrugged, leaning against the wall next to you. his smile had that easy confidence you were beginning to associate with him now. “but i’ll step in if you need medical attention. emotional support counts too.”  

you groaned so loud it echoed in the hallway. “i swear, i liked you better when you were quiet.”  

“oh, you like me?” he asked, his grin widening just enough to make your stomach flip in protest.  

“past tense,” you shot back, finally shoving the key into the lock and turning it with more force than necessary.  

“if you say so,” he replied, drawing out the word like he didn’t believe you for a second.  

“you’re insufferable,” you muttered, turning around with your key in hand, gripping it like a weapon. “how do you live with yourself?”  

“one day at a time,” he replied, dead serious.

you shot him a glare as you finally shoved the key into the lock. it turned smoothly this time.  

“maybe you should try it,” he added, just as you opened the door.  

“try what?” you asked, already regretting engaging.  

“living with me,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. he even had the audacity to wink.  

you nearly slammed the door in his face.  

“goodnight, jaemin,” you snapped, stepping inside.  

“sweet dreams, love,” he called after you, his voice warm and smug in a way that lingered.  

you closed the door, locked it, and leaned your head against it with a groan that could only be described as deep emotional fatigue.

“then i guess it’s just you.”

you stayed pressed against the door for a little too long, thinking about it.  

he’s the worst.

the absolute worst.

♡ ♡ ♡

then came the visiting.  

you heard a quiet, rhythmic knock knock knock on your door one night. not frantic, not loud just steady enough to make you pause in the middle of scrolling through your phone.  

you frowned. minnie wasn’t the “surprise visit” type, and you definitely hadn’t ordered food. so who…  

when you opened the door, he was right there. 

jaemin.

he leaned against the doorframe, one arm propped against it, the other tucked into his pocket. his posture was relaxed, but his eyes sparkled with that familiar glint of mischief.

“what do you want?” you asked, gripping the door like it was a shield between you and whatever ridiculousness he was about to say.  

“so rude,” he said, mock-offended, though the lazy grin on his face betrayed him. “you invite a guy to share fried chicken once, and suddenly you’re heartless?”  

“oh, please.” you stepped back slightly, but you didn’t close the door. “i offered it. don’t act like i saved you from a tragic famine.”  

“true,” he agreed, his gaze dropping for a split second, flickering over you like he was trying to catch you off guard. “but since you brought it up, i was thinking about how we never got dessert.”  

you blinked, thrown off by the randomness. “what?”  

“dessert,” he repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “fried chicken’s great and all, but it’s not a complete meal. we missed out.”  

“and what, you came to my door at 9 pm to tell me that?”  

“yep.” he rocked back on his heels, completely unbothered. “i figured you owed me by now.”  

“owed you?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes. “for what, exactly?”  

“emotional support,” he said, grinning like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “that elevator ride? life-changing experience. bonded for life. it’s only fair you buy me dessert.”  

you tried to fight it. you really did. but the laugh slipped out anyway, betraying you.  

his grin widened, the kind that wasn’t just smug… it was triumphant.  

“fine,” you sighed, grabbing your phone off the counter. “but you’re paying next time.”  

“next time?” he echoed, his voice tilting upward just slightly. he leaned forward, close enough that the space between you suddenly felt smaller. “so you’re already planning our next elevator date?”  

oh, this man.

“don’t push your luck,” you muttered, pointing a finger at him while you tapped through your food delivery app. “i might close the door on your face next time.”  

“you like me too much to do that,” he said softly, and this time his tone wasn’t teasing.  

it was smooth, confident, and just low enough to make you glance up without thinking.  

your thumb hovered over your screen for a second too long before you forced yourself to break eye contact. you picked the first dessert you saw just to escape the moment and right before you got to pay he snatched the phone from you and put in his card details.

“so annoying,” you muttered.  

“gentlemanly,” he replied easily.

“you’re lucky i’m too tired to throw you out,” you shot back, already regretting how much you were letting him get away with.  

“lucky?” he asked, smirking. “i’d say you’re the lucky one. who else brings dessert and great company?”  

you groaned, loudly, just to drown him out.  

♡ ♡ ♡

thirty minutes later, you were sitting side by side on your couch, barely an inch between you, sharing a container of chocolate lava cake like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

“don’t hog it,” you grumbled, jabbing at his hand with your spoon when he took an extra-large bite.  

“it’s called portion control,” he argued, entirely unapologetic as he went for another.  

“it’s called stealing,” you shot back, scooping up a bigger piece just to even the playing field.  

“maybe,” he said, glancing at you with that maddening grin. “but you’re letting me get away with it.”  

“only because i don’t want to waste food,” you countered, though your voice lacked the conviction you wanted it to have.  

he leaned back slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours in a way that felt too casual to be an accident.  

“you’re really bad at lying, you know that?” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make you pause.  

you turned to glare at him, spoon still in hand, but the words caught in your throat when you saw the way he was looking at you.  

he wasn’t grinning anymore. not exactly.  

it wasn’t a smirk or a joke or one of those teasing little quips he always threw your way. it was… softer. almost curious.  

your heart stuttered before you could stop it.  

“and you’re annoying,” you said again, but this time it came out quieter.  

his lips twitched, like he was holding back a laugh.  

“you already said that but i think it loses meaning when you let me hang out with you for this long,”  he murmured.  

you didn’t reply. you couldn’t. not when the air felt so… different.  

so instead, you turned back to the TV, grabbed another spoonful of lava cake, and shoved it into your mouth as an excuse to not say anything.  

he chuckled softly, the sound barely audible over the hum of the TV.  

♡ ♡ ♡

the next few days went by pretty much the same. whenever you bumped into jaemin in the hallway, the parking lot, or even at the local cafe, his eyes would lock on you like a heat-seeking missile, ready to tease you in a way that you hated to admit was starting to feel oddly enjoyable.

but everything escalated the day minnie came to visit you.

it had been a while since you two last saw each other, given that she lived in a different city. as soon as she arrived, you were buzzing with excitement. but you’d forgotten one crucial thing… minnie had a rare, borderline supernatural ability to drive you absolutely insane.

“i can't believe you had a second chicken date with him and still didn’t jump his bones… have i taught you nothing?” she said, exasperated as she popped a handful of popcorn into her mouth. dawson’s creek reruns were playing in the background, and as if that show didn’t depress you enough, minnie’s relentless criticism of your non-existent love life was making it worse.

“it wasn’t a chicken date,” you groaned. “we had cake. and why would i jump his bones when we’ve only just started speaking more than two words to each other like, last week?”

“you don’t get it,” minnie said, turning to face you with the gravity of someone about to lecture you. “a man doesn’t just knock on your door asking you to have dessert with him unless he has a different idea of what 'dessert' is.” she raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“ew, don’t make that face,” you winced. 

“i’m serious, y/n. if you keep shutting down every man that’s interested in you, the only dick you’ll get is that inflatable one i got you.”

“not even,” you sighed, slumping against the couch. “i haven’t taken it out of the box yet. and i won’t. that thing already embarrassed me enough for the next two lifetimes.”

“but if you think about it, if it weren’t for tom, you’d still be secretly crushing on dr. mcdreamy.”

“you did not just name the sex doll tom,” you said, eyes narrowing.

“i think we should at least go out tonight since you’re clearly not gonna put the moves on your sexy neighbor.”

“absolutely not,” you shook your head, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “ i’m not about to waste my night talking to any guy who thinks 'intellectual debate' means arguing about protein powder.”

“okay, harsh… no wonder you’re single,” she muttered as she got up and started tapping away on her phone.

“who’re you calling?” you asked, squinting at her suspiciously.

“there’s only one person who can drag you out of this apartment,” she muttered with a sly grin. "hold on—hello? jake? yeah, guess who i’m with right now?" she paused dramatically, glancing at you with a wicked smile. "your favorite girl, obviously!" she snickered, tilting her phone just enough to snap a photo of you mid-protest. 

“dude, c’mon, i’m in my grandma pjs right now,” you said, pointing at the flowery pajama top you were wearing.

“how about we meet up at the neo club? yeah? awesome, and bring one of your hot friends,” she added, grinning like a cat that just cornered a bird.

she hung up, looking triumphant, but you folded your arms with a scowl.

“there’s no way i’m going out,” you said flatly.

♡ ♡ ♡

you still ended up going out.

but only because they offered to pay for all your drinks, and who were you to refuse such a generous offer?

it didn’t take long to spot jake. he was already stirring up trouble at the bar, his charm dialed up to 100 as he leaned in close, tossing out some line that had the bartender blushing so hard she had to look away just to keep it together.

“ugh, casanovas make me sick,” you grumbled, scrunching your nose as you watched him.

“stop harassing the lady, jake,” minnie said, grabbing him by the collar and tugging him away from the bar. he turned around with a mock-offended gasp.

“excuse you, she was absolutely enjoying that,” he said with an infuriating level of confidence. he wasn’t even wrong—the bartender was still grinning.

“whatever, tiger. look who’s out of her cave!” minnie announced, shoving you forward slightly.

jake’s eyes lit up the second he saw you. he practically lunged forward, wrapping you in a bear hug and lifting you off the ground.

“no way! my y/n! it’s been, what, four years since i last saw you?” he spun you in a small circle before finally setting you down.

“please don’t be so dramatic. we saw each other last year on your birthday,” you laughed, shoving his chest.

“too long for me, babe. you know seeing you is always a treat,” he said, giving you one of those overly saccharine smiles he knew would make you roll your eyes.

“when are you ever not flirting? is that your default mode? is there any way to reset you?” you said, tapping his forehead like you were trying to reboot a broken phone.

“you know you love it,” he winked, and somehow it was both annoying and charming at the same time.

“anyways, where are the drinks i was promised?” you extended a hand expectantly.

“here you go, princess,” he said, handing you a tequila sunrise with a flourish. “and here you go, troll,” he added, handing minnie a margarita.

“i’ll kill you,” minnie slapped his arm hard enough to make him flinch.

“ow, abuse! abuse!” he cried dramatically, clutching his arm as if he’d been mortally wounded.

“you’ll live,” minnie muttered, taking a sip from her glass.

the night was already off to a wild start, and you had a sinking feeling it was only going to get worse.

♡ ♡ ♡

“so you’re telling me the box with all the freaky shit minnie sent ended up being delivered to your neighbor?” jake was practically doubled over, clutching his stomach from laughing so hard. “and he opened it?”

“yeah, laugh it up,” you said, unamused as you swirled the straw in your drink before taking a long sip. you’d lost count of how many drinks you’d had, but the warmth in your chest and the slight buzz in your head told you it was definitely more than a couple.

“if i were you, i would’ve moved,” he said, wiping at the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “i’m trying to think of a time i’ve been that embarrassed and not even my drunkest moments come close.” he shook his head like he genuinely felt bad for you, though the grin on his face said otherwise.

“believe me, i tried to avoid him,” you said, gesturing with your drink in hand. “but somehow, after that, he started sticking to me like gum on a shoe.”

“i’m telling you, he wants you!” minnie slurred, her eyes barely staying focused as she swayed slightly in her seat. clearly, she was the drunkest one at the table, her words carrying that telltale wobble of too many cocktails.

“don’t start with that again,” you shot back, tossing a napkin in her direction. “he doesn’t want me. he just likes messing with me because he figured out i’m an easy target.”

“oh, really?” she said, eyes narrowing like she’d just come up with the most brilliant plan. “then call him right now. and if he answers, put him on speaker.”

“like hell i will,” you snorted, glancing at your phone. “it’s-” you checked the time “…literally 3am. why would i disturb him just to prove your silly little theories?”

“coward! coward!” minnie started chanting, slapping the table. jake immediately caught on and joined her, their voices syncing up in a way that only drunk friends could manage. “coward! y/n is a chicken!” they sang in unison, making sure to drag out the last word obnoxiously.

“ugh, why do i have friends like you two…” you muttered, covering your ears as their chanting grew louder. “okay! fine! stop that right now, i’ll text him. once.” you jabbed a finger in the air for emphasis, giving them both a stern glare that did absolutely nothing to dim their excitement.

“what do i even say…” you groaned, staring at your empty chat with jaemin.

“send him a picture,” jake suggested.

you thought about it for a second, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “fine,” you muttered, lifting your phone. fueled by alcohol and peer pressure, you decided on the classic "oops, wrong person" strategy. you snapped a quick selfie, pursing your lips into a kissy face for maximum effect. you didn’t even care that it was blurry or that you looked very obviously drunk. in fact, that made it funnier. you snickered to yourself as you hit send.

“he won’t reply, guys,” you said confidently, tossing your phone onto the table face-down. but barely ten seconds passed before you heard the unmistakable ping of a new message.

“you were saying?” minnie arched a brow, crossing her arms in mock satisfaction.

“it’s probably just some random notification,” you said with a shrug, but your voice wavered as you picked up your phone. you tapped the screen, eyes widening slightly at the name that appeared.

jaemin neighbor (3:02am): ‘thought you weren’t one to party hard?’ 

the message was punctuated with a little smirk emoji that somehow made it worse.

“what’d he say?” minnie asked, leaning in so far you thought she might topple over.

you barely had time to answer before another message popped up.

jaemin neighbor (3:03am): ‘don’t drink too much though, you’re still recovering from that cold. and don’t let strangers hold your drink.’

your eyes stayed glued to the screen, heart doing an odd little flip that you refused to acknowledge. 

“oh my god, he’s worried,” minnie gasped, hands flying to her face. “he’s literally whipped!” she squealed, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you back and forth with unhinged glee.

♡ ♡ ♡

after seeing jaemin's message, you decided you needed to get drunker to drown out the thoughts swirling in your head. by the time you got back to the apartment, your uber driver had to practically haul you out of the car. you were a complete mess, your feet barely cooperating with the ground beneath you. minnie ended up hitting it off with jake’s friend so she decided to leave with him to do god knows what dirty things.

“woah there!” you yelped as you stumbled, nearly falling backward.

“ma’am, what’s your apartment number?” the driver asked. all you could do was laugh and mumble some random string of numbers that didn’t come close to making sense.

“y/n?” a familiar voice cut through the fog in your mind, sharp and clear like a bell. it almost sobered you up on the spot. he was wearing his scrubs and his tired appearance told you that he was coming back from a long shift.

“mr. doctor is here!” you announced with unrestrained glee, throwing your arms up. the sudden movement made you lose balance, and you tilted sideways bumping into the driver.

“you know her, sir?” he asked, his forehead shiny with sweat, clearly desperate for an exit out of this.

“uhm, yeah, she’s my next-door neighbor. i’ll take it from here, thanks,” jaemin said, stepping in with the calm authority of someone who’s seen this exact scenario a dozen times before. with zero effort, he crouched down and hoisted you onto his back, his hands steady under your thighs to keep you secure.

“wheee!” you squealed, your cheek smushed against the back of his head.

“hold on tight, yeah?” he muttered, his tone dry but fond as he adjusted his grip on your legs.

inside the elevator, you got bold. maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was just you accepting your undeniable attraction to jaemin, but your hands found their way to his arms. you gave his biceps an experimental squeeze and then hummed, thoroughly impressed. “do all doctors got big, muscular arms or just you?” you asked, squeezing again as if conducting a very important scientific investigation.

jaemin’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a smile. “do you always get this touchy when you’re drunk?” he replied, shifting you slightly higher on his back.

“oh wow, you smell so good,” you said, burying your nose in his hair. “like… like one of those fancy candles you’re not supposed to light cause they’re too expensive.” you giggled against his head, completely oblivious to the way his ears flushed pink at the compliment.

“i told you not to drink too much,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “this is dangerous, you know.”

“sorryyyyyy,” you whined, dragging out the word. “but you know what they say about alcohol… uh, ‘wine before whiskey, you’re feelin’ frisky’?” you squinted, clearly thinking very hard.

jaemin tilted his head, giving you a side-eye full of disbelief and amusement. “that’s absolutely not the saying,” he said, his voice low and warm with a hint of laughter.

“no?” you pouted. “then it’s… ‘drinks before thoughts, memories get lost!’” you declared with absolute confidence.

he let out a full, genuine laugh, his shoulders shaking under you as he carried you down the hallway. “close enough,” he muttered.

♡ ♡ ♡

in front of your door, you squinted at the digital lock like it had personally wronged you. you pressed one button, then another, and frowned when the screen blinked angrily. your brain felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and trying to remember your code right was harder than trying to solve a riddle while underwater. 

“ugh, whatever,” you groaned, letting out an exaggerated sigh before plopping down on the floor, legs sprawled out.

“what are you doing?” jaemin's voice came from above, and when you tilted your head back, you saw him crouched in front of you, eyebrows raised.

“can’t remember the code, so m’ sleeping here. duh,” you replied with the kind of lazy confidence and lack of urgency only drunk people have. you reached out and booped him on the nose simply because he looked cute like a bunny in your inebriated mind.

he blinked, clearly thrown, before a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “no, you’re not,” he said, shaking his head. he stood up, offering his hand. “come on.”

“ugh, fiiine,” you groaned, letting him pull you up, though you were basically dead weight. he slipped an arm around your waist to steady you, and the warmth of his hand pressed against the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. the touch was casual but it sent a sharp jolt of awareness through you. 

you bit your lip to distract yourself from the sudden rush of heat. blame it on the alcohol. definitely the alcohol. 

“i never sleep in a guy’s apartment ‘til…” you held up your hand and started counting on your fingers, lips moving as you mumbled to yourself. “like the 6th date.” 

“that so?” jaemin glanced at you, his voice raspy in a way that made something flip in your stomach. 

“mmhm,” you hummed, leaning your weight against him. “gotta have rules, y’know? safety first.” 

“you’re not wrong,” he replied, guiding you toward his door with slow, careful steps. “but that logic’s got a flaw, don’t you think?” 

you squinted up at him, skeptical. “what flaw?” 

“you’re here with me, and we’re not even on date three,” he said simply, giving you a pointed look. 

you tried to ignore the fact that he considered the elevator and that night at your apartment as dates.

“that’s different,” you countered, waving a hand like that somehow made you right. 

he glanced down at you, eyes sharp but soft in the way they flickered across your face. “how?” 

you blinked, suddenly too aware of the space between you two — or the lack of it. his arm was firm around your waist, and you could feel the rise and fall of his breathing. 

“you tell me, doc,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes. 

there was a brief silence, just the quiet hum of the hallway lights and the soft shuffle of your feet. his fingers curled slightly against your hip, the pressure grounding but gentle. when he spoke again, his tone had shifted — quieter, steadier. 

“i’d never do anything to hurt you,” he said, voice sure like a promise. his eyes met yours, serious in a way that knocked the air right out of your lungs. 

you didn’t have a quick comeback for that one. 

he held your gaze for a moment longer before clearing his throat, eyes flicking away. “anyway,” he said, his voice back to its usual steady calm, “you can sit for a bit. i’ll get you some tea and food, sober you up.” 

“huh?” you blinked, your tipsy mind still trying to catch up after that intense moment you just shared. 

“sit,” he repeated, guiding you toward the couch like you were a stubborn cat. “tea. food. you’ll thank me later.” 

you flopped onto the couch with zero grace, still buzzing from everything.

your head was throbbing, but that wasn’t half as uncomfortable as the rapid thumping of your heart against your chest. it wasn’t normal. it couldn’t be normal. you pressed a hand to your chest like that might somehow slow it down.  

“what is this…” you muttered under your breath, tilting your head back against the couch. 

you were spiraling, no doubt about it. overthinking everything. it’s just jaemin, you reminded yourself. your neighbor. your kind neighbor. of course he’d say stuff like that. he’s a good person, and good people say things like "i’d never hurt you" all the time, right? it didn’t mean anything. didn’t mean a single thing. 

calm down, y/n.

you blew out a slow breath, trying to trick your heart into believing you were unbothered. 

jaemin came back moments later, a cup of tea in one hand and a small plate of buttered toast in the other. he’d ditched his jacket, now in just a fitted black t-shirt and scrub pants. you weren’t sure what was more distracting… the way the fabric clung to his chest and arms, or the way the veins in his forearms stood out as he set the plate down. you stared a little too long, gaze following the flex of his muscles.  

he’s just a guy, you thought, just a guy with arms that look like they were carved out of marble. 

“okay, drink this,” he said, nudging the tea toward you. his voice had slipped into his "doctor tone", soft but firm, like he fully expected to be obeyed. “you’ll feel better. if you feel dizzy or like you’re gonna throw up, let me know. i’ll go shower real quick, and you can shower after.”  

he disappeared into his room before you could respond

you sat there for a second, letting the silence settle around you. without him there, you finally took a proper look at his place. it was weirdly nice for a building as old and shabby as this one. sleek, modern furniture, spotless floors, a faint scent of something woodsy and clean. candles lined the windowsill, and he had an at-home gym tucked neatly in one corner. 

of course he does, you thought, he’s probably too busy saving lives to hit a real gym. 

you bit your lip, remembering the way his arms had felt around your waist. the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric of your shirt. and now, after seeing how built he actually was, it was starting to make a lot more sense. 

“ugh, stop it,” you muttered, shaking your head. it was just the alcohol messing with you. that, and the fact that you were definitely ovulating because there was no way you’d be acting like this otherwise. the combination was lethal. 

you reached for the tea, eager for something to snap you out of your head, but the second you took a sip— 

“ah—!” you yelped, dropping the cup. hot liquid splashed onto the floor, the mug clattering after it. thankfully, it missed your legs but your tongue throbbed like you’d just bitten into molten lava. 

“shit,” you hissed, sticking your tongue out like that might cool it down. 

“what happened?” jaemin’s voice came from the bathroom, sharp with concern.  

“‘s fine!” you tried to call back, but with your tongue still stinging, it came out garbled. “ihz ohkaay!” 

the sound of the shower stopped. you barely had a second to panic before jaemin burst into the living room, dripping wet, a loose towel slung dangerously low on his hips.  

you froze. 

oh.

oh my god.

if this were an anime, you’d have shot out a nosebleed so powerful it’d blast you into another dimension.  

“what happened?” he asked, eyes darting to the mess on the floor, then back to you. he crouched beside you, eyes scanning you likely looking for injuries. water dripped from his hair, trailing down the sharp planes of his face, his chest, his abs… 

his abs.

your gaze locked on the V-line that dipped beneath the edge of his towel, and your brain short-circuited. every coherent thought you’d ever had dissolved on the spot. you didn’t even realize you’d spoken aloud until you heard your own voice. 

“oh my god.”  

jaemin blinked, eyebrows drawing together in worry. “what?” 

“n-nothing!” you stammered, face heating faster than the tea had. you slapped a hand over your eyes like that might erase the image from your mind. it did not. it was burned in.

he frowned, his puppy-dog concern on full display. “i’m sorry, i should’ve warned you the tea was hot.” his gaze shifted to your tongue, still sticking out as you tried to cool it with air. his frown deepened. 

“izzokay,” you said, or at least tried to. with your tongue swollen and numb, it sounded more like “iz okeh, iz my fauwt.”  

“hold on,” he said, his tone dropping into doctor mode. “stay put. you might cut yourself on the glass.”  

he moved with quick precision, ducking into the kitchen and coming back with a towel and some paper towels to clean up. you, unfortunately, had nothing to do but sit there and watch him. and watch him you did.  

the way his muscles shifted under his skin with every movement. the flex of his back, the dip of his hips, the subtle pull of his abs as he crouched to pick up shards of glass. you sat there like a fool, cheeks blazing, unable to look away.  

he could model for anatomy textbooks, you thought, completely mesmerized. like, imagine turning to page 47 and seeing this man labeled as "muscular system: front view."

every part of him moved with that annoying grace certain people just had. the kind of grace that was only possible when you were stupidly, unfairly attractive.  

he wiped the floor clean and tossed the paper towels aside, giving one final glance at the spot to make sure there wasn’t a single shard left behind. then he turned to you.  

“all clear,” he said, standing to his full height. the towel on his hips slipped slightly lower, and your gaze shot to the ceiling so fast you almost got whiplash.  

“thanks,” you muttered, trying to keep your eyes anywhere but there. you still saw it in your peripheral vision. 

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “you sure you’re okay?” 

am i okay? absolutely not. your tongue was burnt, your pride was in pieces, and your brain was playing a slow-motion highlight reel of his abs. you were the furthest thing from okay.  

“yep,” you croaked, voice cracking at the end. 

“here you go,” he said, handing you a glass of cold water. “it should help your tongue.”

“thanks,” you mumbled, cradling the glass with both hands. you refused to look directly at him, eyes darting everywhere in the room. the slow drip of condensation on the glass suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world.

“are you hot? you’re sweating,” he asked, leaning forward, his gaze landing on you with that soft concern he wore too easily.

you nearly spat the water back out. of course you were hot. this whole situation was hot. the room was hot. he was hot.

“it’s fine,” you blurted, shaking your head a little too quickly. “i’ll just shower.”

“yeah, sure. go ahead,” he said, nodding toward the hallway. “bathroom’s the door on the left.”

he glanced down at you, eyes flickering over your dress just briefly. instinctively, you tugged at the hem like that would magically make it longer. you should’ve known minnie was setting you up when she called this look “casually dangerous.”

“your clothes…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “they don’t look super comfortable to sleep in, so if you want, i can lend you something.”

there was no reason for your heart to leap into your throat the way it did. it was a normal offer. a completely normal, helpful offer. but your brain decided to be weird about it. suddenly, you were picturing yourself in one of his shirts, fabric hanging loose on you, the scent of detergent and him faintly clinging to it. god, you needed help.

“okay,” you said, trying to sound normal, but it came out too fast.

“i’ll grab them for you,” he said, already heading toward his room.

as soon as he disappeared, you collapsed against the couch, exhaling hard like you’d just survived a boss fight. you dragged your hands down your face, letting out a muffled groan.

“pull it together,” you hissed at yourself.

walking into the bathroom didn’t help. the warmth hit you instantly, soft steam curling in the air. it smelled like aftershave and clean skin, and if there was a single coherent thought left in your brain, it got drowned out by the sensory overload.

“seriously?” you muttered under your breath, tilting your head back with a groan. “what am i, thirteen?”

the mirror was fogged up, so you wiped at it with your sleeve, only to be faced with your own reflection staring back at you like girl, really? you pressed your hands to your cheeks, feeling the warmth that had nothing to do with the steam.

“i’m normal,” you announced firmly to no one but yourself.

except you weren’t, and you knew it. it wasn’t just the alcohol making your brain short-circuit anymore. you were sober now, and this was just you being ridiculous. the neatly folded clothes on the counter didn’t help. a plain white shirt and a pair of sweatpants sat there, fresh and clean.

you eyed the sweatpants, then glanced down at your legs, already knowing how this was gonna play out. still, you gave it a shot, pulling them up your legs after taking a (very) long shower. unsurprisingly, they swallowed you whole, the cuffs dragging behind you. yeah, no. you’d trip over yourself in less than a minute. sighing, you snatched up the shirt instead and pulled it over your head. it slipped down past your hips, the sleeves flopping well past your hands, turning them into little paw-like stubs.

“this will have to do,” you decided with a sharp nod to yourself.

when you finally stepped out of the bathroom, jaemin was lounging on the couch, scrolling on his phone. his gaze flickered up at you, and for a split second, he just blinked, eyes tracking down your frame before quickly darting back to his phone.

“where are the pants?” he asked, lips quirking up just slightly at the corner.

“too big,” you said. 

“hmm” he hummed, looking up and letting his gaze drag just a little slower this time, eyes sharp with mischief. his tongue pressed against his cheek, a lopsided grin threatening to break free. “i see”

if your heart was pounding before, it was in full percussion solo mode now. but you just flopped down beside him, acting like everything was cool, like you weren’t hyperaware of every inch of bare skin peeking out from under the too-big shirt.

you glanced at the clock on the wall — 4:30 a.m. blinked back at you in dim red light. too late to be awake but too early to call it morning. your eyes shifted to jaemin, and you could see the weight of exhaustion hanging on him. his blinks were slower, his body slouched deeper into the couch cushions.  

“jaem…” the nickname slipped out without warning, soft but certain. his eyes lifted to you immediately.

“you can go to sleep. i’m fine,” you said with a small smile, hoping it was convincing. “and… thank you. for everything. you’re too nice to me.”

his gaze lingered on you, steady and unguarded, like he was committing you to memory. then, his lips curved slowly into a smile. not his usual teasing grin but something gentler, sweeter. it hit you square in the chest, and you had to physically fight the urge to lean forward and kiss him.  

you did not win that fight.

instead, you moved on instinct… leaning in and wrapping your arms around him. the moment you did, you panicked. it felt stiff, clumsy, like you’d misread the whole situation. you were just about to pull away when his arms slid around your waist, slow but sure.  

he pulled you in, pulled you all the way in, until you were practically draped over him. your breath caught in your throat, heart thudding so hard you swore he could feel it.  

his head dipped down, face tucked into the curve of your neck. the warmth of his breath hit your skin in soft bursts, and his hold on you tightened just a little more.  

“it’s my pleasure,” he murmured, voice low and raspier than it had been all night. his lips brushed against your collarbone as he spoke, “always.”

good god, you nearly let out a sound you’d never be able to live down. every nerve in your body was on high alert. it had been so long since you’d been held like this.

his nose nudged against your neck lazily. you felt the butterflies in your stomach riot, wings frantic against your ribs.  

“jaem…” you said, but it came out too soft, too breathless to sound like an actual warning.  

“you smell good,” he muttered, voice all sleep and satisfaction. “you always smell good.” he breathed you in.

lord, have mercy.

“i think we should both sleep,” you murmured, but neither of you moved. neither of you even thought about moving.  

“yeah,” he said, voice low and uneven.  

“yeah,” you echoed, but it sounded less like agreement and more like an excuse for staying right where you were.  

he pulled back just enough to look at you, but his arms stayed firmly around your waist. his eyes flickered down to your lips. on reflex, you wet them with a quick swipe of your tongue, suddenly self-conscious. his gaze darkened and you swore you felt the shift in the air.  

“stop me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

but stopping him didn’t even cross your mind. not when he was looking at you like that. not when his face inched closer, closer…

his lips met yours softly at first, hesitant, like he was waiting for you to decide. you decided quickly. your hands slipped into his hair, pulling him in as you kissed him back with everything you’d been holding in all night.  

he responded instantly. his hand cupped the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you in place, deepening the kiss until it wasn’t soft anymore.

his other hand found your hip, gripping you firmly as he shifted you on top of him, his touch guiding you like he knew exactly where he wanted you to be. dangerous. this was so, so dangerous. 

because you were only wearing that stupidly oversized shirt and the flimsy scrap of underwear underneath it. and when you settled fully onto his lap, you felt everything.

he must’ve felt it too, because his breath stuttered, and a needy groan escaped him, muffled against your lips. you felt it vibrate through your whole body, made you shiver as if he’d pressed his mouth to your spine instead.  

his hand on your hip squeezed, fingers digging in just a little harder. 

the kiss grew messier, wetter, breaths and tongues tangled together in a way that felt far past the point of no return. it didn’t help that his other hand left your neck, sliding down, fingertips trailing along your side before slipping under the hem of the shirt.  

his hand slid up and up until…

he froze the second he realized. his palm pressed against bare skin, no bra, no barrier. you felt his breath hitch at the same moment you heard it.  

“fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, his voice rougher now, heavier. his fingers spread wide, covering as much skin as he could reach, his palm warm and steady against your ribs.  

and when his thumb brushed up, grazing just barely under the curve of your breast, the sound you made was far too needy. his gaze flicked back up to yours. like he was asking. like he was giving you one last out.  

you didn’t take it.  

his hand moved again, bolder this time. his palm slid over the curve of your breast, warm and firm, fingers curling around it as if it belonged to him. you sighed at the contact, eyes fluttering closed as your head tipped forward. it wasn’t enough. you didn’t know what “enough” would be, but it wasn’t this.  

he must’ve felt it too, because his other hand rose to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin in slow, soothing circles. he tilted your face up, and for a moment, you thought he’d kiss you again. you tilted toward him, lips parting, but he had other plans.  

instead, he leaned in and pressed his lips just beneath your ear. the warmth of his mouth sent a shiver down your spine, and before you could even process that, he was moving lower. he kissed his way along your neck, slow and steady, with the kind of patience that made your heart feel like it was on a countdown. 

and then the kisses changed. his teeth grazed your skin, his lips sealed over the spot, and he sucked hard enough to make you gasp. your hands flew up, gripping at his shoulders as he trailed love bites down to your collarbones, marking you in a way that felt possessive, the kind you’d see after he was gone.  

“jaemin,” you whispered, your fingers digging into his shirt. his name barely sounded like a name anymore.  

his only answer was a low hum against your collarbone, his hand still working under your shirt. his fingers traced lazy lines along the sensitive skin beneath your breast, and just when you thought he was going to stay gentle, he pinched your nipple between his fingers.  

you gasped sharply, hips jolting forward on reflex. “oh—”

he didn’t stop. he rolled it slowly between his fingers, feeling out every little reaction you gave him, every twitch and shiver. your body betrayed you, arching into his touch, and the way he smiled against your neck told you he knew exactly what he was doing to you.  

instinct took over before you could think it through. your hips rocked forward against his lap — once, twice — chasing relief from the ache that had been building low in your stomach for too long. you felt the slickness between your thighs, hot and damp, soaking through the thin fabric of your underwear and seeping onto his sweatpants.  

he felt it too. you knew he did from the sharp intake of breath he took, from the way his hands squeezed tighter his fingers digging into your hip, his other hand cupping your breast with just a little more pressure.  

“fuck,” he groaned, head falling forward, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. his hips shifted beneath you, his arousal impossible to miss now. he was hard, and every roll of your hips dragged against him perfectly, making him curse under his breath.  

the heat of it all was unbearable, and you had no one to blame but yourself. but at this point, did it even matter?  

he lifted his head, jaw tight, eyes half-lidded. his gaze flickered from your face to where your hips met his lap, his tongue darting out to wet his lips 

“i don't know how much longer i can hold back…” his voice was strained.  

you blinked down at him, heart thudding hard against your ribs. every nerve in your body felt like it had been lit on fire, but somehow, you still managed to smile.  

“who told you to hold back?”you said, voice soft but sure.  

“shit…” he muttered, his voice low and wrecked. his fingers dug into your hips, guiding them down against him with a deliberate pressure that had your breath hitching in your throat.  

it wasn’t just you moving anymore. he was moving you, rocking you back and forth against him faster, tired of pretending you weren’t both desperate for it.  

your head tipped back as a broken moan spilled from your lips. the friction was too good, just the right amount of pressure to have your thighs trembling. the heat between you had gone from warm to blistering, every grind making you more sensitive, more aware of the damp mess you were both making between his sweatpants and your underwear.  

his eyes locked on you, not wanting to miss a single second of it… the arch of your back, the part of your lips, the way your breath caught every time you sank down a little harder. 

“look at you,”  he breathed, voice rough and half-laughing. “getting this worked up over a little humping”

you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “i’m clearly not the only one,” you shot back breathlessly..  

his lips were back on you in an instant,  rougher than before, all teeth and tongue. his hands slid up your back, under his shirt you were wearing, fingers dragging against bare skin. his nails scratched lightly at your spine, sending chills down your whole body, and you gasped into his mouth.  

he didn’t let you pull away. his lips chased yours, like he’d been starving for this, like now that he’d had a taste, there was no way he was stopping. he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and your body moved on instinct, hips rolling harder against him.  

“fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, head falling back against the couch as he sucked in a breath through his teeth. his hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them tight as if to ground himself, but all it did was spur you on.  

you leaned forward, trailing kisses down his jaw, his neck, biting just enough to feel him shudder beneath you. his pulse was wild under your lips, and when you grazed your teeth against it, his hips bucked up so hard it knocked the air out of your lungs.  

“you’re making it so hard to be soft right now,” he said through gritted teeth, head tipped back, neck bared for you like an invitation. his eyes flicked down to where you sat on him, where the line between you two had blurred so badly it didn’t seem to exist anymore.  

“then don’t be,” you whispered against his ear, biting down on the lobe just to hear him curse again. “nobody asked you to be soft.”

that was all it took. his grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your skin with purpose. his next move was fast—you were on your back before you could register it, his body hovering over you, his weight pressing you down in a way that made your heart race in your chest.  

his eyes met yours, pupils blown wide, hair falling into his face. he looked like a mess and it was perfect.

“say that again,” he said, voice nothing but gravel and breath. his hands slid up your thighs, pushing them apart, the slow drag of his touch enough to make you squirm. “say it again so i know you mean it.”

your chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, and you reached up, fingers threading through his hair.  

“nobody,” you whispered, tugging his head down just enough to make sure he heard you, “asked you to be soft.”

for a second, he didn’t move. just stared down at you like he’d never wanted anything more in his life than to eat you up.

then he leaned in, and when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t soft or tentative or testing the waters. it was raw, hungry, and so deep it knocked the air out of you. his hands moved with purpose, sliding up your thighs, pushing his shirt higher and higher until the air hit bare skin.  

everything was heat and pressure and need. he was all you could feel, all you could hear — his breath heavy and uneven, his name falling from your lips like it was the only word you knew.  

and when he finally pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting to hold himself together, you knew you’d both already lost.

the next thing you know, his hands are tugging your shirt up and over your head, the fabric barely brushing past your arms before it’s gone. the cold air hits your skin for half a second before jaemin’s mouth replaces it, hot and relentless as he traces the curve of your collarbone, his lips dragging lower, slower.

when his mouth finally closes around your right breast, it’s warm and wet and just enough to have you mewling. his tongue flicks over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, his teeth grazing it just lightly, sending a sharp jolt of heat straight down to your core.  

his free hand slides lower, fingers trailing down your stomach, over your hip, and slipping beneath the waistband of your lace underwear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. he moves without hesitation, fingers seeking out the slick mess waiting for him, and the second he finds it, he lets out a low, rough groan against your skin.  

“god, you’re so fucking wet,” he mutters, pulling off your breast with a slick pop, his breath fanning across your skin. he glances down between your legs, his gaze so heavy you feel it like a touch. his eyes darken, his tongue darting out to wet his lips like he’s hungry just looking at you.  

he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, dragging them down in one slow pull, eyes locked on you like he’s scared to blink and miss it. the fabric barely makes it past your knee before he’s already looking back up at you, his pupils blown wide, lips parted with the kind of need that makes your chest feel too tight.  

“let me eat you out,” he says, and his voice is rough and desperate.

you bite your lip like you’re thinking it over, but you know you’re going to say yes. you just like seeing him like this — all unsteady and breathless, too far gone to hide it.  

“please,” he says again, this time more ragged, his voice cracking at the end like he might actually lose it if you make him wait any longer.  

“okay,” you say, and it’s all he needs.  

he’s on you in a heartbeat, sliding down your body so fast it’s dizzying. his hands are firm on your thighs, pulling them apart, spreading you wide until there’s nowhere left to hide. his gaze flicks up one last time, meeting yours like he’s checking, like he’s giving you one last chance to stop him.  

but you don’t. you won’t.

he presses his fingers to your folds, parting you slowly, exposing everything to him, and the breath he takes is deep, like he’s savoring the moment before the fall.  

then he leans in.  

his nose brushes against you first, just a soft nudge that has your hips twitching on instinct. then his tongue follows in one long, slow drag from bottom to top that has your breath stuttering in your chest. his grip on your thighs tightens, fingers digging into your skin like he’s steadying himself as much as you.  

he moans against you, a deep, satisfied sound that you feel as much as hear, and his tongue dives back in, licking at you like you’re his favorite thing to taste. the movements are slow at first, deliberate, his tongue exploring every part of you like he’s trying to figure out exactly what makes you fall apart.  

and you are falling apart.  

your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting as you let out a shaky, breathless moan. your hips twitch up, and his hands are right there to hold you down, keeping you still as his tongue moves with more certainty, more purpose, licking you with long, messy strokes that make you gasp.  

his mouth doesn’t slow, if anything, it grows more determined. his tongue moves with precision now, circling that sensitive spot before flicking against it in quick, teasing bursts that have your hips jumping despite his firm grip.  

“fuck, jaem—” your voice breaks on his name, your hands gripping the sides of the couch, searching for something, anything to ground yourself. but there’s nothing. nothing but him, his mouth, the obscene, wet sounds filling the air, and the heat building low in your stomach.

he groans again, the vibration shooting through you, his tongue flattening against you before he drags it up,

“taste so sweet,” he murmurs into you, his voice muffled, every word spoken straight into your skin. 

“could stay here all night.”

the heat in your belly twists tighter at that, something about the way he says it, like he means it, like he’d ruin himself for this… for you. you’re already too close, and he knows it. he can feel it in the way your thighs tense, in the way your breath catches and your hips press up into him like you’re chasing something you can’t quite reach.  

he hums in satisfaction, his lips wrapping around that sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking just once, just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“god, jaem, i’m—” you don’t even finish the sentence before it hits you, crashing over you in waves so intense you forget how to breathe. you squeeze your eyes shut, mouth falling open on a silent cry as the pleasure hits you all at once, white-hot and overwhelming. he doesn’t let up, his tongue flicking against you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body like he’s determined to pull it all out of you.  

your fingers find his hair, tugging hard, half to ground yourself and half to make him stop because it’s all too much. he groans at the pull, but it only seems to spur him on, his hands tightening on your hips, keeping you pressed against his mouth like he’s not done with you yet.  

“jaemin,” you say it firmer this time, tugging again, and finally, finally he pulls back, his lips and chin shiny with evidence of what he’s done.

“couldn’t help myself,” he says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth like he’s savoring every last bit of you. his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, his hair a mess from where you tugged at it.  

“you look so pretty when you cum,” he says, voice low and husky, and you hate the way your heart lurches in your chest as if he’s just said something sweet.  

“you’re crazy,” you mutter, still catching your breath, wiping the sweat from your forehead.  

“crazy for you,” he fires back, grin widening like he knows how corny it is and says it anyway.  

and for some reason, it makes you laugh. a soft, breathy thing you can’t hold back. 

in one smooth motion, he’s crawling back up your body, his hands framing your face as he settles his weight over you. his lips press to yours, soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, like he’s reminding you exactly where that mouth has just been. you taste yourself on him, and it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.  

“not done with you yet,”  he says against your lips, his hips pressing down against yours, and fuck, you feel how hard he is, the thick, solid pressure pressing right where you need it.  

“then don’t stop,” your fingers slide down his back, nails scraping lightly.

he flashed a wicked grin, and before you could process it, you let out a startled squeal as he hoisted you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. his arms were firm around your legs, his shoulder pressing into your stomach, and you could feel the strength in every stride as he carried you from the living room to his bedroom. 

"jaemin!" you protested, your fists lightly tapping his back, but it only made him chuckle.

"keep squirming, baby. see where that gets you," he teased.  

he laid you down on the bed with surprising gentleness. the cool, fresh scent of his sheets surrounded you, soft fabric meeting warm skin. it was a fleeting comfort, though. you both knew they wouldn’t stay this neat for long. 

jaemin peeled off his shirt with one smooth motion, revealing the sharp lines of his chest and the taut muscles of his stomach. you bit your lip as he kicked off his sweatpants, leaving him in just his boxers. his gaze was locked on you, dark eyes brimming with heat and amusement, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.  

you watched mesmerized as he pulled open the drawer of his nightstand, fingers searching until they found a small foil packet. he ripped it open with practiced ease, and when the condom rolled out into his palm, your eyes widened. 

"that’s not the right size," you blurted out, half-laughing. "no way."  

his eyebrows lifted, a challenge sparking in his eyes. "oh? wanna bet?" 

then his boxers hit the floor.  

oh.  

your breath caught in your throat as your eyes dropped, taking in the sight of his dick. heat flooded your face. what the hell.

“close your mouth, baby,” he said, smirking. “unless you’re planning to put it to use.”  

"shut up," you muttered, glancing away, cheeks blazing. "are you gonna do it or not?"  

“do what?” he asked innocently, even as he climbed onto the bed, caging you in with his body. he hovered just above you, his grin infuriatingly smug.  

“you know what.”  

“hmm. don’t think i do,” he murmured, eyes dropping to your lips. “wanna say it for me, pretty girl?”  

you pressed your lips together, heart thudding in your chest harder every second. you could feel the weight of him, his warmth, the tension that hung in the air like a live wire.  

“fuck… me, jaem,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.  

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “louder, baby. i know you can be louder.”  

he wasn’t wrong. flashes of earlier moments filled your mind, the way you were moaning and whimpering definitely wasn’t quiet. you swallowed the last bit of your hesitation.  

“fuck me. please.”  

he hummed, satisfied, his grin softening as he hooked his hands behind your knees and tugged you down toward him. you let out a quiet gasp, suddenly flat on your back, with him positioned directly above you. his body hovered just close enough that every shift of movement made you feel him.  

your eyes flickered up to his face, and for a second, he wasn’t teasing anymore. his gaze was steady, searching, his eyes dark but kind. he reached out, fingertips tracing your jawline with such tenderness it made you ache in a different way.  

“you okay, baby?” he asked softly, letting you know he’d stop everything if you said no.  

your heart swelled at the care in his voice.  

you nodded, fingers curling around his shoulders.  

he leaned in, close enough for his breath to fan across your face. “need words, love.”  

“i’m okay, jaem,” you said more firmly, gazing up at him. 

his eyes lingered on yours a moment longer before he nodded. he took a pillow and carefully placed it behind your lower back 

"good girl," he murmured.  

he shifted, his hands steady on your hips, grounding you as he lined himself up. the anticipation coiled tightly in your stomach, a nervous, thrilling buzz. you felt him prodding at your entrance, he swiped his tip up and down, the action made you clench in anticipation. he eased in, inch by inch, the stretch stealing every ounce of air from your lungs.  

his head dropped, forehead pressed against yours, jaw tense as his eyes squeezed shut. a soft curse left his lips. “fuck, so… so tight,” he groaned, his voice wrecked. his fingers dug into your hips, holding you still.

the moans spilling from your lips mixed with his name, coming out soft and unrestrained. every inch of him felt like too much, the kind of stretch that made your breath catch and your nails press into his shoulders. it had been so long since you'd had sex that you'd almost forgotten what it felt like, and even back then, no one had ever filled you like this. jaemin was thicker, longer, and the difference was impossible to ignore. 

"baby, if you keep squeezing me like that…" he laughed breathlessly, his fingers drawing slow, steady circles on your hip like he was trying to soothe you. “i might not make it all the way in.” 

“s’rry, you’re… just too big,” you muttered, voice coming out more wrecked than you intended. 

he bit down on his lip, eyes flicking down to where you were connected. the sight alone was about to undo him. "yeah?" he breathed, a little too satisfied with himself. his hand slid up, fingers pressing into your waist just a bit harder, grounding you in place as he pushed in deeper. 

the pressure was overwhelming, every slow inch making you feel like you might fall apart right there beneath him. and the deeper he went, the more you swore you wouldn’t last long. the tight, aching pull in your stomach was already coiling up, twisting tighter with every second.  

“you okay?” his voice was softer this time, the restraint obvious in how still he stayed once he’d finally bottomed out. his forehead pressed lightly to yours, lips hovering just close enough to brush your skin.  

“mhm,” you nodded quickly, legs shaking around him. 

“words, baby,” he said, and his fingers tilted your chin so you’d look at him. 

“i’m okay, jaem. just…just move, please,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.  

"since you asked so nicely," he said with a grin that was all teeth and trouble. his hands gripped your thighs, pulling them higher against his sides. his hips pulled back, just enough for you to feel every inch of him drag out slowly, before he pushed back in.

the breath punched out of you. you didn’t even have time to recover before he was doing it again, sharper, like he was testing just how much you could handle. 

"god, you’re taking me so well, princess," he groaned, eyes flicking down to where your bodies connected like he was mesmerized. his hands slid up your sides, the warmth of his touch a sharp contrast to the way he was slamming into you. "like you were made for me." 

“jaem-” his name was the only thing you could manage, high-pitched and broken. your head tipped back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut, but that only made everything feel sharper. 

“what's that?” he asked, voice rough as he leaned in closer, his lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth. "love it this much, huh?" 

you didn’t answer, didn’t need to. he could hear it in every shaky breath, feel it in the way your body reacted to him. 

his mouth was on yours a second later, messy and hot, his teeth dragging over your bottom lip before his tongue slid past it. he didn’t kiss you so much as claim you, taking everything you gave and then some. your fingers knotted in his hair, desperate for something to hold on to. the sounds between you were wet, frantic, each one making the coil in your stomach twist tighter. 

you were close… so, so close.

 but then he pulled away again, leaving you gasping at the sudden loss. before you could even think to complain, he grabbed your hips, flipping you over like it was nothing. your cheek pressed into the pillow, hips lifted, and you barely had a second to brace yourself before he was back inside you.

the first thrust knocked the air out of your lungs. it was deeper now, sharper, because he’d found a whole new spot to ruin you from. your fingers dug into the pillow, muffling the sounds spilling from your mouth, but even that wasn’t enough. the angle had you seeing stars, the kind of pressure that made your legs shake with every thrust. 

“feel that?” his voice was right at your ear, low and rough. “feels different, doesn’t it?” 

you nodded frantically, too gone to answer, but that wasn’t good enough for him. his hand slipped up, tangling in your hair, gently tugging you up just enough so he could hear you.  

“talk to me, baby.” his voice was a rasp now, barely hanging on. "tell me how it feels." 

“s’good…so good, jaem,” you gasped, words rushed and jumbled but still clear enough. "i’m- i’m gonna…”  

“go ahead, baby," he said, lips brushing against your ear before he bit down softly on your earlobe, making you jolt. "want you to cum for me." 

your whole body shuddered as the release crashed into you, slow and unrelenting, like a wave that just wouldn’t let up. it didn’t hit and fade away like usual — it lingered, making your muscles seize and tremble with every pulse. you felt boneless, your limbs heavy as you sagged against the bed, head turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow. jaemin stayed inside you, his grip on your hips loosening just slightly but his eyes stayed locked on you, dark and intent. you could feel him watching every little twitch of your body. 

“look at you,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “so pretty like this.” 

he eased out of you slowly, and the emptiness that followed had you sucking in a sharp breath. your thighs shook as you tried to press them together, but his were still on you, thumb brushing softly along your inner thighs admiring how your cum slid down your dripping core. 

you glanced down, lips parting at the sight. his cock was flushed, standing firm against his stomach, the condom showing nothing but a hint of precum mixed with the mess you’d left behind. a slow heat pooled in your belly again, your body already responding before your mind could catch up.  

“you didn’t—” you started, but the words dissolved in your throat, eyes flickering back up to meet his.  

you didn’t wait for him to say anything. your hand shot out, fingers curling around his wrist, and you tugged him forward. he followed easily, letting you pull him in close, his lips already parting like he was expecting a kiss. but just as he leaned in, you braced a hand on his chest and shoved him down flat on his back. 

“oh?” he breathed out a soft, surprised laugh, his eyes widening as his head hit the pillow. “what’s this, huh?”  

“shh,” you muttered, climbing over him, one leg swinging over his hips until you were straddling him. your palms flattened on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your hands. 

“bossy now, are we?” his grin stretched wider, his hands sliding up your thighs with a slow, deliberate touch. he squeezed just above your knees, fingertips pressing into your skin.  

“quiet,” you said leaning forward, your breath warm against his ear. “thought you’d like a girl who takes charge.” 

his head tipped back with a breathy laugh. “oh, i do,” he said, voice trailing off into a low hum as his eyes dipped to where your hips hovered just above him. “but i like it even more when she can keep up.” 

the corner of your mouth tugged up into a grin. “we’ll see,” you muttered, reaching between your bodies to wrap your hand around him. he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his whole body going rigid beneath you. even with just the faintest pressure of your hand, you could feel him twitch, his hips bucking up slightly. 

“s-sensitive,” he hissed, jaw tightening as he pressed his head back into the pillow. but he didn’t stop you, didn’t even try. if anything, his fingers dug harder into your thighs, holding you steady like he was afraid you’d pull away. 

“thought you could keep up,” you shot back, glancing up at him. his brows furrowed, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before they flickered back open. the teasing look on his face was gone now, replaced with something hungrier, more focused.  

you lined him up with you, heart thudding hard against your ribs. you’d done this before, but it felt different now… the weight of his eyes on you, the way his hands gripped you just a little tighter as you slowly lowered yourself onto him. the stretch was slow, inch by inch until you felt him fill you completely. 

“f-f—” his curse broke off into a low groan, his chest rising sharply as his hands slid up to your waist. “god, you’re—” he didn’t finish. couldn’t finish. his eyes screwed shut, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip so hard you thought he might draw blood.  

you braced your hands on his chest, fingers curling just slightly as you adjusted to the feeling. the heat in your core burned brighter, the ache of it twisting into something sharper, more desperate. you shifted your hips just a little, testing it, and the friction hit you so perfectly you gasped, nails digging into his chest.  

“you okay?” his voice was strained, barely more than a whisper, but there was a thread of concern woven through it. his eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded but focused on you.  

“mhm,” you nodded, breathless as you lifted your hips slowly, feeling every inch of him slide out before sinking back down just as slow. his head tipped back, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, a low groan rattling from his chest. 

“yeah, just like that,” he muttered, his grip on you loosening as he let you set the pace. “take your time, pretty girl.” his words slurred just a little, as if he wasn’t fully in control of them anymore. “feels so…” his breath hitched, head tilting back against the pillow. 

his hands never stopped moving, though. they roamed up your waist, across your ribs until they found your boobs, they played there for a minute before sliding down to grip your thighs again. every time you dropped your hips, you watched the way his face twisted — brows pulling together, lips parting, his eyes half-lidded and glassy. his fingers twitched, his grip faltering like he wanted to touch you everywhere at once. 

“harder,” he breathed, his voice so quiet you almost missed it. his eyes flicked up to yours, gaze locked, lips parted and shiny with spit. “don’t hold back.”  

you bit your lip, grinning through the burn in your legs as you shifted your pace and started going faster. the sound of it echoed in the room and you felt the warmth building low in your belly again, tighter and tighter with every roll of your hips. 

“y-yeah, just like that,” he gasped, voice cracking, his eyes fluttering shut again. he pressed his head back, the veins on his neck on full display, and you watched the way his adam’s apple bobbed with every uneven breath. his hands slid to your hips, guiding you in sync with his shallow thrusts upward. the movement was messy, desperate, his body seeking more even as he tried to hold on.  

“gonna—” he bit out, breath hitching sharply. his eyes flew open, wild and unfocused as he stared at you like he wasn’t even sure what he was about to say. “gonna— oh, fuck—” 

“yeah?” you gasped, leaning forward, your hands braced against his chest, fingers curling into his skin. “feels good, hm?” 

he didn’t answer with words. he answered with his body, hips snapping up to meet yours, his fingers dragging down your back, hard enough to leave little streaks of heat in their wake. his breathing grew choppy, his body locking up beneath you as his grip on your waist turned bruising. 

“don’t stop,” he panted, his voice rough, broken. “don’t— oh, fuck.” 

you didn’t. not until you felt every last bit of him give in. his whole body went taut, muscles straining beneath you, his grip locking you in place as he let himself go. he groaned so deeply it sounded more like a growl, his breath hot against your neck as he pulled you down to him, holding you close.

“what’s the verdict, doctor?” you asked, tracing circles on his chest, still sat on top of him.  

“hm,” he hummed with his eyes still closed, lips tugging up at the corners as if he was fighting off a grin. “patient shows signs of extreme confidence. possible cause: being too good at driving me crazy.”  

you snorted, tilting your head to look at him. “is that your professional diagnosis?”  

“oh, absolutely,” he said, cracking one eye open to meet yours. “might need to run some more tests, though. you know, for accuracy.”  

“yeah?” you leaned in, your lips ghosting over his jaw. “what kind of tests, doctor?”  

his hands slid up your back, fingers splayed wide as they pressed you closer. “thorough ones,” he muttered, his voice rasping against your ear. “real hands-on approach.”  

“sounds serious,” you teased, letting your nails drag lightly down his chest. “hope your credentials check out.”  

“i’m overqualified, baby,” he breathed, tipping his head back against the pillow with a lazy grin. “let me show you.”

my inbox is always open for any comments about the fic!! thank you<3

[pjohoo-reclists]

The Lightning Thief Era Rec List

In light of the first season of the PJO TV Show coming out and the flood of new fanfics that followed, here's a list of fic recs over 5k that are set in that time period. The corresponding list with fic recs under 5k is here (link TBD). These fics do not contain spoilers for the later books/seasons.

The Love of the Sea by amythestusmoon

G | 6.5k | Complete

Sally Jackson/Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson

Pre-The Lightning Thief, Family Bonding, Protective Poseidon

Poseidon knew, deep down, the moment his child was conceived. Could feel the spark of it, the way he had for millennia before. Could feel the sea reaching for its newest progeny. This child would be strong, it knew it. He knew it. It had to be. He had brought a curse upon it for his own selfishness, and he knew one brother, at least, would punish the child for his broken oath as well. When Perseus was born, Poseidon felt it spark in his heart. He felt the currents of the sea around him dance, rejoicing with him.

leaving like a father (running like water) by avesy

G | 6.6k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Sally Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson

Family angst, Pre-The Lightning Thief, Good Parent Poseidon

After fathering a forbidden child, Poseidon is forced to watch Percy grow up from afar. No matter how painful the distance is, there is an endless list of those who would want to harm him—monsters and gods alike—and Poseidon knows he needs to keep him separate from that world for as long as possible. But when Zeus’ Master BoIt is stolen and Percy has become the prime suspect, Poseidon quickly finds that he can no longer outrun Fate.

Across the Hall by Deerlie_03

T | 7.8k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson

POV Outsider, Percy Jackson needs a hug, Pre-The Lightning Thief

The lives of the Jackson family pre-The Lightning Thief as told by a mortal neighbour who wants nothing but the best for the young woman who recently moved in across the hall, pregnant and without anybody in her life, and her unborn son

Neon Lights Verse by rycbarm123

T | 11k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Triton, Percy Jackson & Hermes

Seafam, background abusive Gabe Ugliano, Murder

Percy has a very bad, no good life after his stepfather enters the picture. It goes from bad to worse, and no one is in his corner. Thing is, he also apparently has a whole other side of his family he didn't know about.

Of Storms and Bloodlines by inkncoffee

G | 13k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon

Canon Compliant, Father-son Relationship, Bonding with Animals

When people thought of Poseidon they thought of the sea; Poseidon, Lord of the Seas, Commander of the Waves, the Stormbringer. Upon consideration they would add Earthshaker, for catastrophic events such as earthquakes were hard to forget. Few remembered, however, that Poseidon was also Lord of the Horses. Stormbringer and Earthshaker tended to squeeze that one out. Percy had been able to talk to horses for as long as he could remember. He liked to think he understood them. Although he's not entirely sure why the new stallion thinks he's its foal. Poseidon is not jealous that Percy thinks a horse makes a better father figure than himself. At all.

forbidden things have a secret charm by phoenix_flying

T | 18k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Luke Castellan, Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Alabaster Torrington

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Good Luke Castellan, Book 1: The Lightning Thief

That was his first day at Camp Half-Blood. He wished he’d known how briefly he would get to enjoy his new home. OR percys days at camp half blood but different

bring the forgotten dawn by poisedwalrus

G | 22k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood, Percy Jackson & Nico di Angelo

Time Travel, Unreliable Narrator, Annabeth is ready to kill a god

“What is it?” Grover asks, “What’s with that weird look on your face?” “Just trying to figure out if turning me in will get us enough bounty money to buy our way to LA.” Percy says, craning his neck towards the news van. “We are not turning you in to the police.” Grover presses his head back into the alleyway. “Why not?” Percy says. They could use a bit of cash. “You guys can just break me out afterwards, right?” Annabeth looks like she’s considering it. “No, guys,” Grover says. “No.” If Percy has to spend the rest of his life cleaning up after the gods, then he might as well start from the beginning.

The Trade AU by Triscribe

T | 29k | Last Updated March 14, 2024

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Thalia Grace, Luke Castellan & Annabeth Chase & Thalia Grace

Poseidon loves Percy, Protective Thalia Grace, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

“Thalia Grace,” said the man, the god, as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “Your father has just killed someone I cared very deeply for. I’m here to make certain he doesn’t do it again." Shit. Before Thalia or Luke or Grover could react, the god reached behind him, and pulled out- -a kid. A little kid, no bigger than Annabeth. A boy with curly blonde hair, and red-rimmed eyes, who stared at the four of them with the sort of dazed expression that belonged on people just rescued from the wreckage of natural disasters.

Trading Tomorrow by Darkmagyk, loosingletters

T | 44k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Luke Castellan, Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase

Time Travel, Quests, Brotherhood

Percy Jackson arrives at Camp Half-Blood bruised and bleeding, with the knowledge that he's the son of a god and his mother is dead. His little display with the Minotaur has caught the attention of the camp. But he’s not sure it is good attention, yet. Only the Hermes Cabin's not-quite Co-counselor Theseus, ‘call me Theo,’ doesn't treat him like a fascinating zoo exhibit. Which would be a relief, except he looks exactly like Percy: same green eyes, same trouble making smile, same black hair. The only differences are the fact that Theo is six years older, covered in battle scars, and the black tattoo on his arm. A trident and the letters SPQR. Theo is eighteen, powerful, and unclaimed. And his resemblance to Percy could set a dangerous precedent.

The Constriction in Breathing Air by DustShattersLikeGlass

G | 51k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase & Grover Underwood

Smart Percy Jackson, The gods like Percy, BAMF Percy Jackson

New York was doused in rain. A category five hurricane touched down out at sea. An underwater earthquake followed; tectonic plates shifted; water was sucked away from the shorelines. Warnings were sent to surrounding coastal cities. A hospital in Manhattan remained unaffected. There was no panic in the air and a bubble of safety around the building. Nurses chatted as they worked, talked about the rain, talked about the storm, talked about the beautiful, haunting newborn in room 316 whose heart worriedly stuttered anytime he was away from his mother. The room was quiet. The mother slept. The baby, born too late for mortals but too early for anything else, was awake, staring at the ceiling from his cocoon of wires and blankets. A drop of water ran from the faucet, and as it hit the sink it formed. A Greek God, ancient and old, powerful and wild, condensed into the form of a mortal. He looked fondly on the woman, before stepping to the cradle and looking down at his son. Cresting waves met the depths. “Hello Perseus,” Poseidon, the Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses, rumbled, his voice layered with blessings and ancient rites. “Welcome to the world, μικρός μου Πρίγκιπας των Θαλασσών.”

Stolen Lightning by undeath230

M | 64k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Thalia Grace, Percy Jackson & Luke Castellan, Thalia Grace & Luke Castellan

Competent Chiron, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Thalia Grace

Percy Jackson thought he was a normal kid. That was until one fateful day at a museum changed his life permanently. He wasn't sure about it at first, but now he is. He definitely didn't want to be a half-blood.

Son of the Sea God by KeeganageeK

G | 102k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Annabeth Chase & Grover Underwood, Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Percy raised by Poseidon, Powerful Percy Jackson

In one world, Poseidon offers to build Sally Jackson a palace under the sea. When she refuses, Sally is left to raise her son by herself in the mortal realm. But what if there was another way? In a different world, Poseidon cannot bring himself to leave his new family and stays to raise his son, Perseus Jackson. Now Percy faces a war between the gods, a new camp with new people, and a quest all the while keeping his past a secret.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 75

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 75: A Golden Crown of Sorrow I

AO3 - Masterlist

(18K words)

Rhaenyra found herself standing in front of the ancient altar, a relic brought from Old Valyria when house Targaryen had departed from their ancestral lands. This very altar had borne witness to happier times, used when she had married Daemon in the ancient rites of Old Valyria. Those moments now felt like echoes from a distant past, as if they belonged to another life altogether. 

The morning air brushed against her skin, a gentle yet chilly caress from the sea, following a night dominated by a fierce gale that had only subsided with the break of dawn. Rhaenyra had spent the night wakeful, her gaze lost in the turmoil of the storm outside, embodying the tempest within her. She found herself before the altar, her surroundings a vague haze, as attendants had prepared her, their ministrations leaving no imprint on her clouded consciousness. Her body ached profoundly, muscles tense and sore, bones feeling as if they’d been ground together–bruised and creaking with each movement. Yet, it was the profound emptiness that engulfed her soul, a void so vast it seemed to have consumed her very essence, rendering her a shell devoid of anything but the ache of her body and the thrum of hollowness. 

The infant was laid to rest upon the wooden pyre, its tiny form almost incongruous within the immense pain its birth had inflicted upon Rhaenyra. The birth had ravaged her from within, as if a monster had burrowed deep inside her, rending and tearing with ferocity that belied its unwillingness to part from her body. It was as though the creature sensed the doom its arrival would herald, as if it understood its own nature as an aberration, and fought with a desperate, destructive instinct against its inevitable emergence into the world. 

She allowed herself a moment to shut her eyes, grappling with the sharp pang of grief that clenched her heart. Upon reopening them, Daemon had stepped forward, his hand setting the pyre alight with a torch, its flames quickly catching the wood before he handed the torch back to an attendant. 

As the fire grew, smoke billowed up, carrying with it the harrowing scents of charred wood and flesh, a visceral reminder of the life being honored and mourned. Words found no place in this moment, leaving silence to preside over the gathered mourners. This silence settled with a weighty presence, amplifying the solemnity of their vigil as the morning’s light, muted and under a blanket of pale gray clouds, found moments of brilliance where the rising sun’s golden rays pierced through, illuminating the ritual.

Rhaenyra’s head was laden with a heaviness, her thoughts tangled and obscure, as if she navigated through a thick mist, each step more laborious than the last, her mind clouded by this all-encompassing fog. She felt Daemon’s steady presence at her side, her gaze unwavering from the fierce blaze that now claimed the remains of her child. A profound weariness weighed upon her, the emptiness of her womb palpable beneath her hand.

Amidst the rising flames, Rhaenyra witnessed the disintegration of all the hopes and dreams she had nurtured for her daughter throughout the pregnancy. Those visions, so vivid and hopeful, were not being devoured by the fire, just as it laid claim to the tiny form before her. She was struck by the peculiarity of her situation–having carried a life within her, feeling it grow and move, as natural as any of her previous pregnancies. There had been no forewarning, no sign that her child would emerge as it did–an abomination. She struggled reconciling what had been to what should have been. 

The thought haunted her: had she, in some way, precipitated her child’s fate? Could her own despair and utterances, born of the intense pain and desperation she experienced during labor, have cursed the child, twisted it into the form it took? Those curses were not born of malice but of sheer agony, a prayer for relief when pleas had gone otherwise unheard. Yet, despite the aberrations, despite the suffering its birth had inflicted upon her, it was her child, a being she had loved deeply, unconditionally. She wondered, was love not sufficient? To love the child, despite everything–was that not enough?

As the fire vicariously devoured both wood and flesh, a haunting question lingered in Rhaenyra’s heart.

“Ñuha tala, hae hōzalbrot sittus. Kostilus hen jaehoti gīmēdenon iksos…” Her voice, strained and hoarse from the ordeal of childbirth, barely rose above a murmur. It could so easily have been carried away on the wind, never to be heard. But she was heard. She felt Daemon’s eyes settle on her as she continued to watch the flames engulf their child. “Iā qilōnarion. Gīmēdenon issa. Kepa ñuha morghūltas se pāletilla ñuha lāettaks tubī sitta.”

My daughter, born an abomination. Mayhaps she is a warning from the gods… or a punishment. She is an augury. Born on the day my father died and my crown was stolen.

A constricting sensation gripped her throat, yet the overwhelming void within her persisted, rendering her empty, resonant with the hollow thrum of loss–an echo of a woman. “Ñuha Visenȳs. Yn sagon ziry sytilīptos daor.”

My Visenya. But she was not meant to be.

The wind, seemingly in accord with her inner turmoil, whipped the smoke into a chaotic dance, dispersing it into the ether as the pyre’s intensity mounted. Although the blaze’s warmth lapped at her, it did little to penetrate the deep chill that had claimed her flesh.

“Kessa sagon se mōrī,” Rhaenyra murmured, each word echoing within the vast emptiness of her soul, reverberating with a profound finality. She will be the last.

Daemon’s voice, tender and cautious, broke the silence at her side. “Kosti sylugon syt tolī lo ao jaelagon ziry. Bisa daoriot emagon naejot sagon se mōrī.” 

We could try for another if you desire. This needn’t be the end.

But Rhaenyra slowly shook her head in refusal, knowing the truth of her words. “Konīr won't sagon tolī.”

There won’t be another.

The resolution within her was definite; she would not bear another child. This conviction was as unwavering as the cycle of day and night, as irrevocable as the fire that claimed the physical form of their daughter. There would not, could not, be another.

The child’s tumultuous arrival had wreaked havoc within her, a violent tempest that she knew left her barren. The tragedy of losing her second daughter to childbirth was compounded by the cruel realization that she would no longer bear children. The latest loss was just one in a series of profound grievances– the death of her father, the theft of her crown, her eldest daughter’s captivity, and now the death of her youngest in childbirth alongside her own fertility. 

Each loss layered upon the last, leaving Rhaenyra ensnared in a web of sorrow and irrevocable change. 

The flames surged upward, their tongues flickering fiercely against the backdrop of the sky, animated by the wind into a frenetic display of light and shadow. They twisted and turned, alive with a vicarious energy as they feasted upon the body of her child. Rhaenyra caught herself pondering the sensation of extending her hand into their embrace, curious if the fire’s caress would resonate on her skin. Intuitively, she knew the heat would register, yet anticipated that any resulting pain would feel remote–like the residual agony of childbirth that lingered in her body. The pain persisted, yet her consciousness had somehow distanced itself from the physical sensation, leaving her with the impression of being an observer to her own experiences, detached and adrift from the reality of her suffering.

Amidst this feeling of detachment, there lingered a delicate thread that prevented her from completely succumbing to the depths of her own mind, a small tether anchoring her to the tangible world around her and her own body.

“Nyke brōztagon syt ao,” Rhaenyra muttered, her thumb unconsciously caressing the now vacant curve of her womb. A trace of bitterness crept into her voice, a sentiment strong enough to anchor her spirit within the realm of the physical, to keep her from being entirely consumed by her own thoughts. Her words barely rose above a whisper, imbued with a haunting echo of solitude and yearning, “Nyke brōztagon syt ao. Gōntan ao daor rȳbagon ñuha limagon.”

I called for you. I called for you, could you not hear my cries?

He had indeed heard her; of that, she was certain. Her cries had reverberated throughout Dragonstone, her voice tearing through the silence with desperation, calling out for him, her pleas and prayers for intervention filling the air. Yet, despite her agonizing summons, he had not appeared by her side. 

“Nyke vēttan naejot mīsagon aōha pāletilla.  Se peldio gaomas daor umbagon naejot pryjagon skori zȳha ossēnagon iksis nākostōbā,” Daemon responded, his voice deep and resonant, echoing within her with an intensity that felt like a clash of metal on stone. I prepared to defend your crown. The snake does not wait to strike when its prey is weak.

“Ao vaoresagon naejot mazverdagon vīlībāzma pār sagon ondoso ñuha paktot skori nyke vīlībāzma ñuhon,” Rhaenyra retorted, a surge of resentment igniting within her, as fierce as the flames on the altar. This internal blaze seemed to strengthen her connection to her body, as the bitterness within her twisted and turned. “Nyke jorrāelatan ao.”

You would rather wage war than be at my side when I waged mine. I needed you.

“Emilza arlinnon daorun,” Daemon countered, his words piercing her as sharply as a knife. It would have made no difference. “I gūrotan se gaomon bona sia bēvilagon, syt aōha jorrāelagon se syt se dārion. Ao jorrāelatan nyke naejot mīsagon skoros iksis aōhon–”

I took the actions that were necessary, both for your sake and for the realm’s. You needed me to defend what is yours–

“Nyke jorrāelatan ao ondoso ñuha paktot,” Rhaenyra interjected, her voice thick with the imminent threat of tears. The ache of his absence was compounded by her grief and pain, bringing a sharpness to her words, emphasizing the depth of her need for him during her struggle. I needed you by my side. 

Exhaling deeply, Rhaenyra’s gaze was transfixed by the dance of the flames before her, feeling their intense heat graze her skin, the warmth emanating from the fire enveloping her. Fire possessed a peculiar duality; it was a force of utter destruction, devouring all in its path indiscriminately, reducing everything to mere ashes. It embodied chaos, a relentless prelude to ruin. Yet, it was harnessed for its utility–encased within candle wicks, nestled in hearths to stave off the cold, utilized in the preparation for meals, and to illuminate the dark of night. 

Standing before the voracious flames, Rhaenyra was consumed by a singular perception of its nature–not as a tool or a source of comfort, but as a manifestation of insatiable destruction. As the fire devoured the form of her child, all she could discern within its flickering embrace was an unquenchable hunger, a merciless force laying waste to the last connection she had to her daughter. 

As she stood there, Rhaenyra found herself besieged by a grim contemplation–pondering who next might be claimed by the ravenous embrace of a funeral pyre’s flames. This morbid curiosity weighed heavily on her, a shadow looming over her spirit. Weary, she closed her eyes, attempting to shield herself from such dark musings, yet the thought twisted and turned within her, a serpentine coil of dread and sorrow. 

Rhaenyra’s thoughts were a tumultuous sea of uncertainties and hypotheticals, each ‘what if’ crashing against her consciousness like the relentless waves crashing against the shore. Had she remained in King’s Landing, what course might fate have taken? Would she now be mourning her father, standing before his funeral pyre instead? Would the child still be in her belly, happy and content? Could she have seized the crown before it was usurped from her grasp? She pondered the sacrifices required to cement her rule and protect her children–how much bloodshed would have been necessary, and whose blood would have been spilled? Would any of her choices have altered the tragic fate of the child she had carried?

Yet, amidst the myriad of unanswered questions and conjectures, one regret stood above the rest, a beacon of remorse in the storm of her reflections. She fixated on the decision she believed to be her gravest error–not bringing Daenera with them when they had the chance. This oversight, more than  any speculative alternative history, tormented her, the weight of this singular ‘should have’ bearing down on her with an acute sense of loss and missed opportunity. 

The Stranger had claimed one of her daughters already; the thought of enduring such a loss again was unbearable to Rhaenyra. As her gaze returned to the dancing flames, a heavy question burdened her soul. “Is this an omen?Is this how the gods reveal that I am not meant to be Queen? The gods mock me with their cruelty.”

Daemon’s voice, low and steady, broke through her turmoil. “Misfortune doesn’t signify an omen. Sometimes, it’s merely that–misfortune.”

His gaze settled on her. Rhaenyra could feel the intensity of his look, probing, weighing, as if trying to penetrate the fog of emptiness that had settled within her. 

“And is that your consolation for your own misdeeds?” She shot back, her voice laced with an edge of bitterness–accusing. “Everywhere you go, a shadow seems to spread, darkening everything it touches.”

The accusation was harsh, and she knew it, yet the words spilled out, fueled by a mix of grief and resentment. Daemon’s response to their loss appeared distant to her–as though he did not feel it at all. He had carried her to their bed, he had been present, offering her comfort through the night, his arms wrapped around her, but his absence when she needed him the most left her feeling abandoned to the dark fate that seemed to dog his steps. She wondered, despairing, if this curse of misfortune was now hers to bear as well, dooming everything she cherished to a similar end. 

“We abandoned King’s Landing to strengthen my claim, yet it was usurped,” Rhaenyra’s voice carried the heat of resentment, feeling the simmering embers of bitterness flare within her. “They robbed me of my crown and my daughter.”

“Your father would have accepted this fate,” Daemon retorted, his tone as sharp as her own. “But you, you cannot. Summon your banners; loyal men will rally to your cause in the tens of thousands. Some already stand ready. Together, we can reclaim the throne and your daughter.”

“The realm does not want a queen,” she countered, her words echoing the hollowness she felt inside. “The truth was spoken at the Great Council, yet my father chose to ignore it. Viserys was a fool to name me as his heir…”

Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was, had cautioned her long ago when she was declared the heir. She herself had had her right stolen from her on the basis of her gender. Young and foolish, Rhaenyra had believed the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would willingly accept her reign. Now, she wasn’t so sure. 

Rhaenyra could feel the intensity of Daemon’s stare, laden with a piercing scrutiny. “A queen without a crown is scarcely a queen at all.”

“You shall wear your crown,” Daemon assured her. 

Meeting his gaze, she observed the weight of his brow, his eyes sharp and probing–judging her weakness. Though there was a somewhat fragile compassion within their green depths. It was the undercurrent of pity minging with his judgment that inflicted the greater wound. Daemon had reminded her often enough that they were the blood of the dragon, destined to soar over the realm as its sovereigns, bound by blood and divine right. Yet, Rhaenyra felt anything but powerful. She felt diminished, hollow, and profoundly alone. Doubts plagued her, sapping her resolve. She dreaded that her sorrow was a tide strong enough to sweep her away, to engulf her in its depths until she was lost. 

“And what more will it cost me?” She inquired, voicing her trepidation that gnawed at her spirit. 

As Rhaenyra shifted her focus back to the fire, the wind swelled around them, lifting the smoke and embers into the air, a wild dance against the sky’s canvas. Daemon left her side, stepping away from her, and almost instantly, the distinct sound of swords being unsheathed shattered the stillness. 

“I mean no harm, brothers,” a voice called out, cutting through the tension, followed closely by the approach of steps.

Rhaenyra’s attention turned from the funeral pyre to the sound, her gaze landing on Ser Erryk Cargyll as he moved towards her, kneeling in a gesture of submission. From his satchel, he carefully extracted a crown, cradling it in both hands as he presented it to her. The emerging sunlight, breaking through the clouds, caught the metal, gleaming against it in an intricate blend of gold and silver. Her eyes lingered on Ser Erryk, then on the symbol of sovereignty he held–what was left of her father and what was rightfully hers. The crown was a poignant reminder of his absence, of the intricate web of challenges and struggles he had bequeathed to her, a tangled legacy she was now tasked with carrying. 

“I swear to ward the Queen,” Ser Erryk Cargyll declared, continuing on with his vow, “with all my strength, and give my blood for hers…”

Daemon advanced to take the crown from Ser Erryk’s hands, his focus seemed tethered to the intricate circlet, a tangible link to his aspirations and the legacy of his brother. Rhaenyra retreated from the altar, watching him carefully with bated breath, bracing for the possibility that he might seize it for himself–it had been his to claim once, after all. The crown was a symbol of power and was all that remained to them of Viserys. 

Ser Erryk’s oath rang out, echoing his dedication. “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

Amidst the solemn declarations, Rhaenyra was besieged by a surge of apprehension, a fear that Daemon’s long-held aspirations might supersede his loyalty–his love. And in the depths of her heart, a whisper of suspicion stirred, faint yet insidious. It murmured to her soul with chilling subtlety, suggesting, ‘The crown was his true ambition from the start.’

Yet, as he turned towards her, his expression softened, his eyes meeting hers with a warmth and reverence that silenced that voice, forcing it back into the shadows of her mind. He moved closer, their gaze locked in silent communion, as he gently positioned the crown upon her head. 

The crown’s cool weight settled onto her brow, fitting her perfectly despite being made for a man. Her pulse quickened, a mix of trepidation and awe rendering her momentarily breathless, uncertain of the path ahead. 

“A crown for you, my love,” Daemon murmured, his voice a tender caress against the weight of the moment. Then, with grace that belied his power, he knelt before her, his head bowed in fealty. “My Queen.”

As Rhaenyra’s gaze lifted, the rising sun climbed higher, scattering the remnants of clouds to unveil a vast azure sky. In this moment of radiance, the knights of the Kingsguard gracefully descended to their knees in a unified motion. This gesture set off a wave through the assembly, prompting each individual to lower themselves in a display of reverence. 

Watching this unfold, Rhaenyra was struck with a blend of astonishment and disbelief, tears gathering in her eyes as the profound realization dawned on her: they were kneeling in allegiance to her, acknowledging her as their true and rightful Queen. The significance of this act of fealty filled her with a seedling of hope and a burgeoning sense of duty. 

Gently, Rhaenyra extended her hand, tenderly brushing Daemon’s hair with a soft touch. He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers, and in that brief exchange, there was a quiet understanding, a shared moment of comfort. He leaned into her caress, drawing a measure of solace from her presence, and then he stood, positioning himself by her side.

Rhaenyra navigated the corridors of Dragonstone, her path secured by a detail of guards. Their red cloaks, each adorned with the sigil of the three-headed dragon, flowed behind them with a  grace that belied their readiness for conflict. Each guard’s hand hovered near the pommel of their swords, a silent testament to their vigilance and readiness to defend their Queen. 

Progressing beyond the table situated outside the great hall, they encountered an array of swords laid upon it–a silent, steel congregation awaiting their bearers. Each blade was momentarily forsaken by its owner as they stepped into the solemn expanse of the great hall. And as they ascended the steps towards the assembly, beams of midday sunlight streamed through the lofty, slender windows, casting a luminous glow over the stone interior and dispelling the shadows that lingered. The hall was alive with the presence of an assembled crowed, gathered around the intricately carved wooden table that mapped the entirety of Westeros. This gathering of loyalists and counselors awaited her, a vivid tableau of allegiance and anticipation set against the backdrop of the kingdom they meant to reclaim. 

Positioned at the far end of the table, framed by the warmth of the hearth behind him, Daemon stood enveloped in the fiery orange flow. The light danced around him, casting his figure as if in flame, as she proclaimed, “Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The room, filled with the court and her loyalists, turned their collective attention towards her. Heads bowed in a moment of deep respect and reverence, only to rise again, eyes filled with a blend of expectation and scrutiny. Rhaenyra felt the collective weight of their anticipation–a heavy mantle now on her shoulders. She scanned the faces before her, meeting their looks that were tinged with hope, curiosity, and a subtle trace of apprehension, all seeking to discern her capacity for leadership.

“Your Grace,” Daemon greeted her, his expression softening into a subtle smile that acknowledged her approach. 

Feeling the moment’s gravity, Rhaenyra instinctively straightened, her posture firm as she faced the assembly. With measured steps, she advanced towards the table, her guards mirroring her movements closely behind. She signaled them to halt, preferring some distance to alleviate the press of scrutiny from all sides. 

“Wine, my Queen,” offered Rhaena, her demeanor warm, a soothing presence amidst the intensity of the gathering. 

Gratefully, Rhaenyra took the wine from Rhaena’s hands, her acceptance driven more by a gesture of courtesy than any desire to drink. “Thank you, Rhaena.”

Feeling the rapid beat of her heart against her ribs, Rhaenyra summoned her strength and raised her voice as much as she could muster, saying simply, “Come.”

This moment was not just for her; she was determined to include her stepdaughters, to ensure they were part of this moment rather than observers on the periphery, as she once had been in her youth, serving merely as her father’s cupbearer during council sessions–neither allowed to express her opinions or ask questions. 

Her gaze swept across the assembled faces, finally resting on Baela, who stood close to her grandmother, Rhaenys. Rhaenyra made a subtle, inviting gesture towards the girl as she walked by, silently indicating for Baela to join her side. 

Taking her place at the head of the table, Rhaenyra gently set the wine cup aside. Her fingers entwined, absently twisting the ring on her finger, a small gesture betraying her nervousness. Her gaze drifted across the expanse of the map sprawled out before her, where the veins of its rivers glowed like molten fire, an effect of the candlelight flickering from below, breathing life into the darkened wood. 

Lifting her eyes, she found Daemon’s gaze awaiting her from the other end of the table. 

Beyond the Queensguard, Daemon was the sole figure in the room who bore arms. Positioned prominently at the head of the table, the Valyrian steel blade Dark Sister was conspicuously resting against the table, a silent testament to his readiness and authority. Around him, an aura of intense vitality was palpable; it was as if the various threads of his turbulent and unpredictable existence had converged into a singular, precise point of clarity and purpose. This newfound focus lent him an air of undeniable command. His expression was one of anticipation, a silent question hanging in the air between them. 

“What is our standing?” Rhaenyra inquired, her voice steady despite the pressure of the attentive eyes upon her. 

Daemon responded with the precision of a seasoned commander, “Our forces consist of thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms.”

His tone was as authoritative as his demeanor, betraying no doubt about his familiarity with the demands of leadership in times of conflict. “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired.”

His analysis was delivered with the confidence of someone deeply experienced in the strategies and realities of warfare. “We’ve sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

To this strategic overview, Maester Gerardys contributed further encouraging news, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon.”

As the name of their allies were called out, Rhaenyra acknowledged each lord with a direct look, receiving affirming nods in return. Jace skillfully positioned the wooden and brass pieces on the map to denote their alliances, marking the locations such as Duskendale, Rook’s Rest, Sharp Point, Stonedance, and Claw Isle.

“My lady mother was an Arryn,” Rhaenyra stated, emphasizing her familial ties. “The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

Her assertion was met with Daemon’s keen gaze, which lingered on her with an intense, evaluative silence. He refrained from commenting on the loyalty of House Arryn, a silence seemingly born from the recognition of his strained relations with the house–a factor that could potentially threaten their support. Rhaenyra could only harbor the hope that House Arryn would overlook their contentious history with Daemon–the Rogue Prince–recognizing instead the ties of kinship that bound them. She wished for them to prioritize their shared bloodline over past grievances, rallying to her cause. 

Maester Gerardys interjected with a note of optimism. “Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened as she locked eyes with Daemon, her look laden with reproach. His response to her silent accusation was a veneer of impassive resilience, enduring her scrutiny without yielding. The tension between them was palpable, a clash of wills over unseen lines being drawn. “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.”

Daemon’s reply was definitive, undeterred by her reproach. “I’m going to treat with him myself.”

Their exchange was charged with an unspoken confrontation, a battle of resolve where neither party showed signs of retreat. 

Rhaenyra was no stranger to the discomfort of being excluded from crucial discussions, a sentiment that intensified during her labor. It had since become apparent that, in her absence, pivotal conversations had transpired and decisions had been actioned in her name without her consent or knowledge. She conveyed her dissatisfaction with a subdued yet unmistakable censure. In response, Daemon met her disapproval with a composed assurance, his demeanor bordering on defiant, as if urging her to see the rationale behind his actions. While Rhaenyra grasped the logic of his stance, it did little to mitigate her frustration or assuage her sense of being sidelined. 

Ser Steffon Darklyn raised a critical inquiry, “What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?”

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark, the North will follow,” Lord Bartimos Celtigar stated confidently. 

Rhaenyra interjected thoughtfully, “Lord Borros Barathon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises.”

“An alliance with Borros Baratheon was secured through marriage. It’s reasonable to assume they might be inclined to support us,” Lord Bartimos offered.

“Any alliance we had with the Baratheons ended with the passing of Daenera’s husband,” Daemon stated bluntly. “We cannot cling to past alliances that have since been laid to rest. Lord Borros Baratheon is as fickle as they come and he is proud, he will bide his time and see whichever way the wind blows.”

As he spoke, Ser Steffon Darklyn moved a brass pawn to Winterfell on the map, symbolizing their expected support, while Jace positioned a neutral piece at Storm’s End to represent their uncertain stance with House Baratheon. 

The conversation took a turn as Ser Lorent Marbrand directed their focus back to a pressing issue. “What of the Princess?”

The inquiry about the princess’s status lingered ominously, charged with tension akin to an executioner’s sword poised for the decisive strike. The room was thick with the implication of what her absence meant–and stifling with worry for the princess whom many loved. Apprehension moved through the room like a passing shadow, looming heavily on each face. 

Pausing for a moment, Daemon’s expression remained even as he spoke, “Princess Daenera was present at the usurper king’s coronation, where her betrothal to the king’s brother, Aemond Targaryen, was announced. We’ve yet to receive clarity on her stance, but we are to assume she has been made a hostage.” 

The response to the daunting question settled over the room with a solemnity that matched, if not surpassed, the tension of the initial inquiry. A heavy silence ensued, profound in the absence of voices. Within this silence, another query began to take form, unvoided yet palpable, casing ghostly presence over the proceedings. It was Daemon’s phrasing that birthed this specter, subtly casting a shadow over Daenera’s fidelity. 

Rhaenyra intoned, “She is a hostage.”

Her words cut through the uncertainty and lay to rest, at least momentarily, the spectral doubts that Daemon’s comments had conjured. She had made her stance clear on the issue at hand, and it was a position she intended to uphold firmly until presented with evidence to the contrary.

In the midst of this tension, Jace, with a thoughtful precision, moved to place a pawn at Harrenhal, declaring it for them. As their gazes met, Rhaenyra offered him a brief, acknowledging nod–a silent gesture of gratitude. 

Rhaenyra shifted the direction of their discussion, her voice cutting through the air to focus on Rhaenys, who had been maintaining a quiet presence away from the heart of the gathering. “What news from Driftmark?”

Dressed in a gown of deep blue, the rich fabric fell round Rhaenys in heavy folds, embodying the wealth of House Velaryon. Adorning her attire, the sigil of her husband’s house – a seahorse – was intricately stitched into the golden lace that traced a deliberate path down the gown’s front. She appeared taken aback by Rhaenyra’s direct question, quickly gathering her composure. The momentary hesitation could have been mistaken for reluctance to join the discourse. 

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” Rhaenys finally responded, her voice carrying the weight of her words through the hall.

“To declare for his Queen!” Daemon declared in a confident manner that belied the intention of his words. 

Rhaenys remained unfazed by Daemon’s attempt to put words into her mouth, and she retorted with a statement that was both a clarification and a boundary, “The Velaryon fleet is my husband’s yoke. He decide where they sail.”

The reply was meticulously neutral, carefully avoiding any direct proclamation of support or opposition. 

Rhaenyra acknowledged the delicate balance of allegiance and hope in her response. “We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support…Just as we pray nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health.”

Rhaenys offered a gentle, albeit pensive smile in return.

Aiming to emphasis the strategic advantage of House Velaryon’s maritime prowess would bring to their cause, Rhaenyra asserted, “There’s no port on the Narrow Sea would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.”

With this statement, she turned her focus back to the map sprawled out before them. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she delved back into the discussion of their position. “And our enemies?”

Daemon offered a blunt assessment regarding their prospects with the Lannisters. “We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the Hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.”

Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, her eyes scanning the map before her, settling on the representation of the Westerlands. “Without the Lannisters, we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.”

Daemon concurred with a simple, “No.”

The action that followed–placing a brass pawn near Casterly Rock to denote them as adversaries and another by Riverrun to symbolize an anticipated but unconfirmed allegiance–visually empathized the strategic landscape they were navigating. 

“The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra caught the significance in Daemon’s tone, fully grasping the pivotal role the Riverlands could play not just for their strategic positioning but for the vitality of their cause itself. 

Lord Bartimos interjected with a palpable sense of urgency and frustration, his words cutting through the strategizing. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria.”

At this, Rhaenyra exchanged a knowing look with her husband, a silent acknowledgement passing between them.

“Dragons,” Lord Bartimos declared, his statement hanging in the air with the weight of centuries. 

“The Greens have dragons as well–” Rhaenyra reminded him, her fingers absently twisting her ring with a sense of anxiousness, even as her tone was a mirror of Lord Bartimos exasperation. 

Daemon interjected with precise knowledge of their opposition’s capabilities. 

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your son’s have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.”

His enumeration served not just as a tally of their assets but as a reminder of the significant power at their disposal, and yet, it did little to assure Rhaenyra of their advantage. All they had were young dragons, most of whom were inexperienced in war and too vulnerable to send into battle. 

Rhaenyra sought to interject a note of caution into the conversation. “Daemon, none of our dragon’s have been to war.”

Undeterred, Daemon pressed on, his confidence undiminished. “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark.”

The air seemed to thicken at Daemon’s mention of Seasmoke, the dragon once bonded to Laenor Velaryon. The prospect of another claiming Seasmoke was intricately tied to the fate of its rider–if Laenor was indeed still among the living, hidden away in the Free Cities, the dragon remained his alone. The mere utterance of Seasmoke’s name raised a tempest of questions regarding Laenor’s fate, a mystery that either outcome–his survival or his demise–filled Rhaenyra with an equal measure of apprehension. 

The secrets of that tumultuous night on Driftmark were closely guarded, known only to Rhaenyra and Daemon, and Laenor himself. The potential unraveling of those truths threatened to bring their carefully constructed world tumbling down, a calamity known only to them, veiled from the eyes of everyone present. 

“Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless,” Daemon persisted, undaunted by the caution in Rhaeyra’s gaze. “Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here–and the Shadow of Harrenhal, wild and unclaimed, nesting at Harrenhal.”

“And who is to ride them?” Rhaenyra asked. Despite the impressive count of dragons at their disposal, the issue of finding suitable riders remained a glaring gap in their strategy.

Daemon, however, displayed a bold confidence that seemed unshaken by such logistical concerns. “Dragonstone has thirteen to their four.”

His statement emphasized their numerical advantage without dwelling on the rider dilemma, and he continued, “I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont.”

As Ser Erryk discreetly slipped away from the conversation, his departure was barely registered by Rhaenyra as Daemon’s strategic consideration continued to unfold. He picked up a brass marker, its placement on the map symbolizing the strategic importance of the place. 

“Now… we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host,” Daemon said, moving around the table, he decisively positioned the marker at Harrenhal, reinforcing Jace’s earlier placement. “Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

As the assembly reached a critical juncture, Ser Erryk interjected with an urgent message that immediately drew everyone’s attention. “Your Grace… a ship has been sighted off shore: a lone galleon, flying a banner of the three-headed green dragon.”

Without hesitation, Daemon sprang into action, his instincts seeming to take over. He swiftly moved to retrieve his sword from the table’s head, signaling his readiness to confront the threat, and as he spoke, his voice resonated with authority and command. “Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies.”

Rhaenyra found herself momentarily sightlined by the rapid development, barely managing to voice her concerns as Daemon brushed past her, his movements brisk and determined. He was already on his way out of the great hall, accompanied by Ser Erryk, Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon, as well as Ser Brandon Piper, the Captain of the Guard. 

“I will engage with them on your behalf,” Daemon assured her, his tone resolute.

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra’s voice pierced the tension in the air as she hastened after him, her decision made. The echoing steps of her hurried pursuit filled the hall as she dismissed the council with a wave of her hand, determined to follow her husband. Daemon, however, didn’t halt his stride until her command grew more insistent. “Daemon, stop.”

He finally paused, allowing the men trailing him to proceed without them, affording the two a semblance of privacy. Daemon turned to face her, his movements deliberate as he secured his sword at his waist, his expression grave and expectant. 

Rhaenyra stood firmly before him, resolve etched into her features. “I will meet with them myself. I refuse to let them return to King’s Landing with any misconceptions of cowardice or weakness on my part. I must demonstrate my power unequivocally, and I will do so mounted on dragonback. There will be no doubt who is the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.”

A gentle smile broke through Daemon’s stoic facade, his eyes alight with admiration and pride. “As Your Grace commands.”

With a respectful nod, he acknowledged her decision, then proceeded after his men, as Rhaenyra remained standing where she was. She felt a twist of unease unfurl within her, the lingering discomfort from her recent birth making itself known with each step she took. Absently, her hand drifted to her now-empty curve of her abdomen, where a dull ache persisted, a somber reminder of the life she had carried.

With resolve steeling her every move, she made her way towards Dragonstone’s underbelly, navigating the winding staircase that descended into the castle’s cavernous depths. The journey was illuminated by flickering torches that cast dancing shadows across the rough-hewn stone walls. A mingling of smoke and sulfur hung heavily in the air, a prelude to the beasts that resided within the caves beneath Dragonstone castle. 

Entering one of the vast caverns, Rhaenyra crossed the threshold into a realm where dragons dwelled. Here too, torches lined the path, their warm glow reflecting off the resplendent golden scales of Syrax. The dragon raised her head in greeting, exhaling a breath that was both hot and welcoming, recognizing her rider. 

Syrax tilted her head as if to observe as Rhaenyra approached, the dragon emitting a soft, welcoming rumble that vibrated through the cavernous space. Rhaenyra’s hand slid along the dragon’s snout and she gently pressed her forehead to the dragon, allowing the dragon to nudge against her. She whispered a soft plea, “Tepagon nyke aōha kustikāne.”

Lend me your strength.

With another affectionate nudge, Syrax seemed to express her consent, her massive form shifting slightly to accommodate her rider’s touch. Rhaenyra’s fingers explored the dragon’s neck, tracing the deep valleys between Syrax’s scales, soaking in the heat that radiated from the magnificent beast. 

The Dragonkeeper that had attended to Syrax, an old man weathered by years of experience, approached cautiously, his grip firm on his spear. “Ziry ilimagho syt aōha ao hae lo ziry gryves aōha ōdres.Issi ao sure ao naejot sōvegon isse aōha rytsāri?”

She mourns for you as though she feels your pain. Are you sure you should fly in your condition?

Determined, Rhaenyra positioned herself at the ladder that ascended to Syrax’s back, her hold on the leather steadfast. “Kostan gryves se ōdres. Mazēzi ñuha pāletilla se mazēzi ñuha tala. Bona nyke daor gryves.”

I can bear the pain. They steal my crown and they hold my daughter. That I cannot bear.

Clutching the leather tightly, and with a concerted effort, Rhaenyra heaved herself up with a determined intake of breath, her body protesting as she eased into the saddle, each movement wrought with pain. It was as if she was sitting upon an open wound–and she was. Her cunt was still raw and unhealed from the ordeal of giving birth no more than a day prior. Her bones seemed to groan with a deep-seated ache, her muscles quivering under the strain. 

A swirl of nausea churned within her, compelling her to momentarily shut her eyes in a silent plea for respite. She steadied herself, securing the tether snugly around her waist and firmly grasping the saddle’s handles, preparing to confront the ordeal with unwavering resolve. 

“Rȳbagon,” She commanded the dragon. “Rȳbās. Tepagon nyke aōha kustikāne se ivestragī nyke sagon mijegon zūgagon. Ivestragī īlva urnēptre zirȳ īlva perzys ēza daor zaltan hen.”

Listen. Obey. Lend me your strength and make me fearless. Le us show them our fire has not diminished. 

“Jikagon,” Rhaenyra directed, her voice commanding despite the pain. 

Syrax responded with a deep, resonant growl, her massive claws digging into the earth, propelling them forward. They advanced towards the mouth of the cave, where the scent of the sea mingled with the dust swirled by Syrax’s movements. Each step of the dragon sent shivers up Rhaenyra’s spine, her body tensing with every jolt. Clinging to the saddle, she felt every muscle in her body cry out in protest. The ache in her pelvis was a cruel reminder, each movement aggravating her wounded flesh. 

Nevertheless, she swallowed the pain, and ordered, “Sōvegon, Syraks!”

Responding with a powerful surge, Syrax unfurled her vast wings, catching the rising thermals, her powerful beats propelling them upward. The wind tangled Rhaenyra’s hair, intertwining with the expanse of freedom that flight afforded, momentarily easing her discomfort.

The world unfolded beneath her, the vast expanse of the sea stretching out, where the relentless waves embraced the rocks in a frothy caress, and the heavens stretched wide, adorned with streaks of clouds. The mingling of sea spray and crisp air filled her senses, and she breathed it in greedily. Syrax sore through the sky, letting her tail trace the surface of the water before ascending higher, beating her wings. Rhaenyra’s heart matched the rhythm of Syrax’s wings, pulsating with a shared vigor–a thrill known only to dragonriders.

Together, they soared above Dragonstone, embracing a momentary escape from the troubles below. As they ascended over the walls, the watchful eyes of the newly stationed men–brought by the lords that had arrived while she was abed–followed their ascent, awestruck by the sight of dragon and rider in flight. 

Rhaenyra directed Syrax to the castle’s battlements, between the twin watchtowers. They landed with a loud thud, sending a few guards sprawling on the floor in an attempt to avoid the dragon. Syrax let out a huff, shaking her head. With keen eyes, Rhaenyra surveyed the approach from the harbor, noting the group of men positioned at the landing where the path narrowed towards the harbor gates, effectively controlling access from the docks to the castle. The position atop the battlements allowed her a comprehensive view of the harbor and the solitary galleon docked within, its sails neatly furled, as a delegation made its way towards where Daemon stood. 

As the delegation halted before Daemon, Rhaenyra tightened her grip on the saddle, steeling herself for the ascent. At her command, the air trembled with the roar of Syrax, a sound that echoed across the expanse, a declaration of their might. They soared, slicing through the skies to sweep dramatically over the delegation, casting imposing shadows that danced mockingly around the startled men. Daemon did not flinch, instead his eyes seemed to follow her with pride and vivid amusement. 

Circling back, they descended majestically, directly over the delegation, inciting a wave of fear and panic, the men instinctively recoiling. 

With a command as fierce as the beast itself, Syrax landed upon the narrow path, unleashing a roar that pierced the very air, a potent reminder of the might that Rhaenyra wielded. Positioned high above them, she observed the delegation with a narrowed gaze, a smirk playing on her lips as she reveled in their fear. Her eyes locked onto Gwayne Hightower, whose posture remained defiant but apprehensive.

Rhaenyra gracefully touched down upon the ground, her boots making a definitive connection with the sturdy, unwavering stone beneath her. She expertly concealed any hint of a grimace beneath a mask of stone. Determined not to express even the slightest hint of her unease or weakness, she turned to confront the assembly, maintaining an upright posture and an elevated chin. With an air that commanded attention, she cut through the crowd of traitors as she made her way towards her husband. As she strode past Ser Gwayne Hightower, she caught a glimpse of the subtle yet unmistakable strain that marred his countenance–a frown settling on his features. 

Positioning herself beside her husband, she and Daemon’s gazes briefly locked, communicating an unspoken accord before she shifted her attention to the waiting party. Ser Gwayne Hightower seemed nonchalant–though there remained a note of unease to him as Syrax emitted a growl behind him. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, the other hooked in his belt, his armor proudly displaying the Hightower sigil–a tower topped with flames. The green of his cloak fluttered in the breeze, subtly suggesting his allegiance lay more with his own house than with her estranged half-brother that was supposed to be his king. 

The air hung heavily with tense anticipation, the distant crash of waves and the whistle of wind through the narrow path providing a heavy setting to the silence. Above, the sun marked its zenith, crasting a harsh light over them as the day began its slow tilt towards evening. 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Ser Gwayne commenced, his head bowing slightly in a semblance of respect, yet the iciness in his eyes hinted at a familiar condescension–one that reminded Rhaenyra of his father.

“It is Queen Rhaenyra now,” she corrected him sharply, her voice cutting through the air like steel. “And you all stand as traitors to the realm.”

The tension in the air thickened as Rhaenyra fixed them with a penetrating stare, the nail of her thumb digging into the flesh of her palm in an effort to maintain her composure. “You are in possession of my daughter.”

Gwayne acknowledged with a simple, “Indeed.”

A momentary flicker of vulnerability crossed Rhaenyra’s face as she sought out Daemon’s gaze, seeking a sliver of reassurance, before her eyes settled back onto Gwayne. Drawing upon a deep reserve of strength, she managed to keep her voice even, “And how is she?”

“She fares well, Princess,” Ser Gwayne responded, his demeanor serious yet imbued with a hint of compassion. “We ensure she receives all the care and honor befitting her status.”

“She is well? Truly?” The question from Rhaenyra came again, laden with a mother’s concern seeking unequivocal assurance of her child’s well-being. A knot of apprehension wound its way through Rhaenyra’s core at the thought of her daughter being wielded as a pawn. She ached for the comfort of her daughter’s company, to envelop her in a protective hug, ensuring her safety within the embrace of her arms. The desire to have her daughter by her side, safe and sound, was overwhelming.

Rhaenyra’s hand drifted unconsciously to the hollow curve of her stomach, touching upon the deep-seated emptiness inside her. The absence was palpable, a silent echo of what had been lost. In her mind, there lingered the hope, fragile yet persistent, that reclaiming her daughter might somehow heal the jagged tear in her heart left by the loss of her second daughter. 

At this, a sincere smile broke across Ser Gwayne’s features, his brows lifting in a gesture of empathy and understanding. “Indeed, she is, Princess. She remains unharmed, and I believe, quite hopeful. She is resilient and clever. You needn’t worry so much for her.”

How could she not be consumed by worry? She was, first and foremost, a mother, and her daughter was being held captive. Yet, within Gwayne’s response, there lay a thin thread of comfort, a faint hint of solace that managed to penetrate the dense cloud of her anxiety. 

“I demand the return of my daughter,” Rhaenyra declared, her tone laced with both authority and desperation. 

Gwayne met her insistence with a measured response. “The authority to grant that request does not lie with me. Nor am I sure your daughter would return to you should she be granted the freedom to do so.”

The implication was clear and it jabbed between Rhaenyra’s ribs. She fixed him with a piercing look, her hand rubbing against the ache in her belly. 

A thin smile crossed Ser Gwayne’s face as he slightly inclined his head, his demeanor cool and unmoved by the threat in her voice. “I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms…”

Rhaenyra’s stare grew icier, more intense.

“King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name–”

“Must you recite the pretender’s title each time his name is uttered?” Daemon interjected, visibly annoyed by the needless formalities afforded to a usurper. His stance was relaxed yet poised, signaling a lack of threat but readiness–one hand rested on the pommel of his sword while the other rested on the pommel of his dagger. He let out an exasperated breath, “Are you here at the behest of my brother’s widow or his usurper cunt of a son? Which is it?”

The smile that Ser Gwayne offered in response was as frigid as his gaze, devoid of any warmth–truly his father’s son. “My presence is at the behest of both the Dowager Queen and her son, the King… who, in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes met Daemon’s, a silent exchange passing between them.

“Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne,” Ser Gwayne stated, outlining the conditions for her surrender. “In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers unconsciously played with her ring, considering the offer and its implications. It seemed the Hightowers were willing to acknowledge the legitimacy of her eldest children, affirming their rights to their inheritances–offering it up as though they weren’t already theirs to begin with. But in the eyes of the Hightowers, they were generous terms, it would seem. A spark of incredulousness formed within her–would it be enough to erase the stains of illegitimacy they had already cast upon them?

“Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court: Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, Viserys as his cupbearer,” Gwayne added, detailing what else they stood to gain. “Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Daemon’s response was laced with contempt as he spat out, “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a king.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered between her husband’s vehement sneer and Ser Gwayne’s provoking response. She noted Ser Gwayne’s demeanor, his words meticulously chosen, each serving as a challenge to her claim. 

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Gwayne declared with an imposing certainty, each word ringing with the weight of convictions–each word an indictment against her. “He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands… Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him.” 

Daemon scoffed, his tone laced with disdain as he retorted, “Yet, for all his regalia, he is not Aegon the Conqueror–he is Aegon the Usurper. He is merely a puppet, a mere shadow of the figure you so desperately try to conjure, manipulated by your father’s hands.”

Ser Gwayne’s smile was thin, revealing nothing but a cold amusement. “And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Houses that have also received, and are at present, considering generous terms from their king.”

Rhaenyra sensed Daemon’s intense stare and locked eyes with him. His face, a silent query, suggested a swift conclusion to this pretense of diplomacy by severing Gwayne’s head from his shoulders. However, with a slight shake of her head, Rhaenyra signaled her disapproval for such drastic measures. 

“Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir,” she confronted Gwayne with unwavering resolve, emphasizing the sacred oaths of loyalty and obedience that had once been sworn to her. “You stand before me not as honorable men but as betrayers of your word, forsaking the very oaths you swore.”

Gwayne, unfazed, responded with icy composure, “Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son. It is regrettable that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

Anger surged within Rhaenyra, a storm of resentment and fury sparked by his dismissive tone and the undercurrent of belittlement that weaved through his words. “You and your house are fucking traitors and as are all who stand with you. How long did my father uphold my position as his chosen heir? For how many years did his resolve never waver? How often and steadfastly did he proclaim me the true successor to the Iron Throne?”

Rhaenyra advanced, her bearing regal and undaunted, proclaiming her sovereignty. “I stand as the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and it is under my authority that I will dictate the terms of your surrender.”

Behind her, Daemon’s presence was palpable, an extension of her own will. His movements were those of a predator in wait, his readiness palpable in the air, adding a layer of imminent threat that tightened the grip of the men on their weapons, wary of the impending action from the formidable Rogue Prince. 

“With graciousness, I offer a pardon to all who have taken part in the usurpation of my crown,” Rhaenyra announced, her gaze sweeping over those aligned with Gwayne Hightower, then fixing intently upon him. “For his years of service to King Viserys your father will be afforded the courtesy of retiring his position as Hand of the King and he will be allowed to spend the remainder of his days in Old Town. This clemency will be extended to my father’s widow too, Queen Alicent.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze remained coldly on Gwayne, letting her words settle in. He seemed unsettled, his eyes shifting between her and Daemon, who maintained his stance as a relentless guardian, pacing with a predatory grace behind her. “As for my half-brothers and my sweet sister Helaena, they have been led astray by the council of ambitious men. I invite them to come here, to Dragonstone, to bend the knee and seek my forgiveness. In return, I offer them my mercy and a place within my grace.”

The proposal hung in the air like morning mist, and while it was a royal decree, it held a genuine offer of reconciliation. If her brothers were to accept her as their Queen, she would allow them to enjoy the liberties befitting princes, free to pursue their own paths in life. And as for her sweet half-sister, Helaena, she wanted to see her prosper.

Gwayne’s reaction was telling; he sighed, a gesture tinged with resignation or perhaps a calculated semblance of it, as he cautiously retrieved an aged piece of parchment from his belt. 

Daemon, ever watchful, swiftly snatched the parchment from Gwayne’s extended hand. With an urgency driven by impatience, he unfolded to reveal a page torn from a book. Holding it aloft, his expression twisted into an accusatory scowl, seemingly annoyed by the triviality of what was in his hand as it held no meaning to him. “What the fuck is this?”

A frown settled on Rhaenyra’s face as she took in the sight of the parchment held by her husband. Gently, she took the page from him, her fingers treating the aged parchment with utmost care. As she recognized the image upon the page, a heavy realization dawned on her, settling in her stomach like a weighty stone. The parchment displayed an illustration of Princess Nymeria’s historic voyage across the Narrow Sea, annotated with descriptive text. The wear pattern on the parchment spoke of its frequent contemplation, suggesting a deeper significance or a cherished sentiment attached to it–Rhaenyra felt that attachment tug at her, felt the weight of its significance.  

She was momentarily stricken, her gaze locked on the parchment as a whirlwind of emotions churned within her. The revelation brought a complex tapestry of feelings to surface, intertwining bitterness with sorrow, anger with a poignant sense of what used to be and what might have been. A lump swelled in her throat, and she fought against the tears that threatened to surface, recognizing the profound implications of this gesture. 

“The Dowager Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love and bond you once shared,” Gwayne offered gently, his voice carrying an undertone of caution and perhaps, a note of reconciliation–both of which were overt in its manipulation. “It is her wish that you may find some semblance of it once again. No blood need be shed over this, and the realm may remain at peace.”

Daemon let out a derisive scoff, his voice dripping with contempt. “You claim no need for bloodshed, yet what of the blood you have already shed? Lord Beesbury, Lord Caswell? Have you not shed their blood?”

Ser Gwayne’s expression tightened, his eyes cold as ice. “They were traitors–”

“Traitors?” Daemon repeated mockingly. “For supporting the legitimate claim to the throne? It appears the real treachery lies with you. Shall we extend to you the same judgment you passed on them?”

Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing Daemon with a gesture, her gaze ablaze with a fierce determination. “Alicent kept this?”

“Indeed, she did,” Gwayne answered, refocusing his attention on her. 

“And she gave you this?”

He nodded. 

In that moment, Rhaenyra recognized the gesture for what it was–a desperate plea from someone who once held a place in her heart, imploring her to flee as Princess Nymeria once did, seeking sanctuary far away. Yet, she also saw it as a tactic, an attempt to sway her into submission under the guise of mercy. 

Holding the parchment aloft, Rhaenyra declared, “This holds no meaning to me anymore.” 

Even as the words left her lips, Rhaenyra felt the sting of tears threatening to breach her resolve, a tightness constricting her throat, and a profound ache wringing her heart over a friendship long lost. The impact the parchment had on her was undeniable, yet she masked her sorrow with anger. Ripping the parchment in two, it seemed to Rhaenyra as though she was also rending a part of herself, a fragment still clinging to the cherished past they shared as friends. 

“Maybe this will carry more weight, then,” Ser Gwayne said, reaching beneath his armor to produce another piece of folded parchment. “Before I left King’s Landing, your daughter tasked me with delivering you this message…” 

He presented a sealed letter, its folds secured with a wax emblem bearing the sigil of the Hand of the King. Rhaenyra accepted the letter, her gaze fixed upon the emblem as a surge of emotion threatened to breach her composure–tears prickling cruelly behind her eyes. She felt an intense pang of sorrow and fear clutch her heart, sending waves of pain radiating through her, constricting her breaths and anchoring a heavy weight within her chest. 

“Princess Daenera wanted me to remind you that she is still your daughter…” His words weren’t intended as a solace but served as a sharp reminder of her daughter’s precarious situation. This acknowledgement only amplified the sensation of tightness enveloping her chest, making the burden she carried heavier. 

Rhaenyra needn’t be reminded that Daenera was her daughter–it was a truth she felt as sharply as a blade grazing her flesh, felt as acutely as the absence of a limb. The reminder bore an edge of cruelty, serving to further hone the blade that was pressed against her skin. Syrax, deeply attuned to Rhaenyra’s inner turmoil, unleashed a fearsome roar that sliced through the air, sending a palpable wave of force through the vicinity. The men nearest to her were caught off guard by the dragon’s fury and instinctively recoiled, staggering backward with terror painted on their faces. 

Despite the intimidating roar from Syrax, Gwayne appeared unshaken, though there was a noticeable widening of his eyes and a certain tightness in his features that betrayed his unease. “Her love for you is immense, and she fears what will become of her should you decline our terms of your surrender.”

His words only seemed to drive the imagined blade deeper, letting it slip between her ribs, twisting into her heart and spreading agony throughout her being, reverberating in the emptiness of the loss of her second daughter. 

Daemon’s reaction was a guttural sneer laden with venom, “Should any harm befall her, I swear, each and every one of you will become fodder for my dragon.”

Gwayne remained unmoved by Daemon’s fury, his focus unswervingly on Rhaenyra. This only seemed to fuel Daemon’s wrath as he positioned himself protectively near his wife, his hand fast on the hilt of his sword.

“And if that one-eyed cunt you call nephew lays a hand on her, I will personally feed him his remaining eye before splitting him open from cock to throat,” he sneered. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the letter she held, hesitant to break the seal and unveil its contents. It was only when her husband’s voice, laced with threats, cut through the air that she lifted her gaze to search his face. In his eyes, she saw the fierce promise of retaliation should any harm befall her daughter. This display of wrath brought her an unexpected solace, revealing the depth of his protective instincts–even amidst his suspicions of her possible betrayal. 

“We have no intention of causing her harm,” Gwayne assured, his words met by Daemon’s reproachful huff. “Princess Daenera wishes for your presence at her wedding… A moment of joy she hopes to share with her family, as you were unable to share her joy at her first wedding…”

Rhaenyra felt the bitter sting of his words.

“It is her desire that you accept the terms as I have presented them, and acknowledge Aegon, Second of His Name, as your King and the legitimate ruler of the Seven Kingdoms,” Gwayne continued. “She hopes you will agree to these conditions, for her sake and for the realms peace and stability.”

These words, intended to pacify, hung in the air–laden with the weight of the decisions yet made and the silent plea of a daughter caught in the middle of the political machinations. 

The gentle, seemingly sincere tone of Gwayne’s voice, only intensified Rhaenyra’s disquiet. Tears threatened to surface as she lifted her gaze to finally meet his, feeling an acute pain with each labored inhalation. It was as if a blade had been wedged between her ribs, its sharp point mercilessly piercing her heart with every breath, twisting with calculated cruelty. She fought against the tears, determined not to let them fall in front of the Hightower delegation. 

“In the light of your daughter’s well-being, the inheritance of your sons, and for the peace and prosperity of the realm, I implore you to agree to these terms and put an end to the division of House Targaryen…” Gwayne concluded, his voice carrying the weight of the decision Rhaenyra stood before. “Your daughter, as well as the King, awaits your answer.”

Daemon’s response was immediate and venomous, his position on the matter clear, “The usurper cunt might have his answer now, stuffed in his uncle’s mouth along with his shriveled cock. Let’s end this mummer's farce…”

The sharp sound of steel unsheathing sliced through the tension, as Daemon drew Dark Sister with a swift, fluid motion, the blade glinting with deadly intent as he levied it against Gwayne Hightower–a man he had always despised. He was poised for combat, as were all the other men as they drew their blades. “Ser Erryk, bring me Ser Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.”

Syrax unleashed another roar, towering and spreading her wings wide in a display of intimidation, her snarls directed at the men in front of her. Rhaenyra felt the power of her dragon’s roar reverberate within her, drawing upon its raw energy to fortify her resolve. With the letter and the torn page gripped tightly in her hands, she set her jaw firmly and commanded Daemon to stand down with a simple, “No.”

She fixed Daemon with a piercing gaze that silently implored him to stand down. Their gazes locked, with Daemon’s head canting slightly, a look of discontent marking his gestures as if questioning her certainty. In response, Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened, conveying her decision with an unequivocal turn of her head. With a sigh tinged with frustration and a clear sense of disappointment, Daemon reluctantly lowered his weapon. 

Turning her attention back to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Rhaenyra’s demeanor was once again composed, the tempest within her kept in control. “King’s Landing will have my answer on the morrow.”

Gwayne took a step back, offering a bow, while outwardly respectful, couldn’t fully mask the calculating coldness in his gaze–a trait he had unmistakably inherited from his father.

“Princess…” He uttered, with a tone that held more than mere acknowledgement and then he turned to rejoin his men, taking the lead. His departure was not without a palpable tension, the soldiers shifting restlessly under the weight of Syrax’s thunderous roar. Syrax remained in their path, surveying them with her fiery gaze, forcing the men to halt their retreat. Gwayne cast a wary glance back towards Rhaenyra, his eyes fraught with a mix of uncertainty and apprehension–seeming to question her intentions, almost as if he feared a sudden reversal of her forbearance. 

Rhaenyra maintained her composure, her breath controlled and steady as she lifted her gaze to Syrax. As if understanding her will, Syrax ascended into the air with a resonant roar, her wings unfurling with such might that the cloak of the Green delegation fluttered violently in her wake. Syrax soared, gracefully circling above the restless sea and rocky outcrops, while the delegation retreated towards the dock, threading through the gateway leading to the harbor. Once they vanished from view, Syrax returned to land, taking up the same position on the bridge as she had before, emitting a huff. 

Rhaenyra’s voice carried a blend of inquiry and frustration as she asked, “What transpired with Lord Beesbury and Lord Caswell?”

Daemon studied her for a moment, his expression retaining a sliver of incredulity. “A message arrived from one of my contacts within the City Watch. It informed us of Beesbury and Caswell’s demise.”

“And when did you receive this news?” Rhaenyra pressed, her voice now edged with a clear strain of criticism, signaling her displeasure at being once again ill informed on matters pertaining to her as queen. 

“It arrived only as we left,” Daemon disclosed, maintaining a calm demeanor. “Lord Beesbury, it seems, did not survive the council meeting, and Lord Caswell was hanged for treason.” He then reached beneath his belt, retrieving a neatly folded note. Extending it towards her, he added, “The message mentions your daughter as well.”

Rhaenyra accepted the letter, holding both the torn page and the letter from her daughter, as she carefully unfolded this new piece of parchment. As her gaze moved across the inked words, her pulse quickened, a tumult of emotions swirling within her.

In the wake of the King’s passing, a council convened at dawn, with all key figures present. The events within the council chamber remain unknown, but what we do know is that Lord Lyman did not leave the chambers alive.

Rhaenyra absorbed the contents of the letter, her expression darkening as Daemon elaborated the council’s betrayal, watching her closely. “It appears Lord Beesbury was the first casualty of their usurpation.”

“Lord Lyman was ever loyal to my father,” Rhaenyra reflected, her mind drifting back to her youth. She recalled a council session her father had insisted she attend, despite objections from his advisors. Seated on her father’s knee, young and observant, she had scribbled on a scrap of parchment provided by Lord Lyman from his book. “He would never support Aegon’s claim over mine. He knew my father’s heart better than any of them.”

“They murdered him,” Daemon said, and there was a fire in his eyes.

Disbelief and exasperation shaded her voice as she said, “And Criston has been appointed Lord Commander…”

Daemon’s contempt was palpable. “He makes a mockery of the title. Even rats have more honor than him.”

Lord Commander Westerling has since vanished from the capital, his fate uncertain, and Ser Criston Cole has ascended to his role. Any who resisted pledging allegiance to Aegon has been detained, pending charges of treason. Lord Caswell, denied the right to trial, has been hung, alongside two of Princess Daenera’s guards, Ser Kevan Mertyns and Ser Sithric Greenfield. The maid, Joyce Garner, also met her end, while the rest of the Princesses men have been imprisoned in the dungeon.

“Lord Caswell’s allegiance to my right to the throne has always been unwavering,” Rhaenyra remarked, her disbelief evident as she digested the grim news of his fate. Already, a handful of men had been killed over this dispute. “Daenera herself has penned letters acknowledging his support… and her guards…”

Daemon interjected softly, “They were honorable men who died for their Queen.”

“And Joyce…” Rhaenyra murmured, shaking her head. The thought of her daughter’s suffering was almost too much to bear. Joyce had been a constant presence, a trusted confidante, and someone Rhaenyra had relied upon deeply for the care and protection of her daughter. 

She felt his attentive gaze on her as she absorbed the contents of the letter, her heartbeat echoing her distress, one hand instinctively resting on the aching expanse of her abdomen, the ache seeming to pulsate along with the beat of her heart. 

The princess, however, remains in high spirits despite her circumstances. She is kept in comfort, and is, by all accounts, well. She is allowed to move wherever she pleases through the ground of the Red Keep, though she is never left alone. She is under strict surveillance. Even so, she spends her days standing vigil over her men. 

“Daenera remains unharmed…” Rhaenyra whispered, a measure of relief softening the tension within her at the news of her daughter’s welfare. Yet, this assurance did little to quell her yearning to embrace her daughter closely, to offer comfort and protection. 

“Holding vigil for Caswell and her men,” Daemon observed, a hint of admiration in his voice. “No doubt to the annoyance of the Hightowers.”

Daemon shifted his stance, his hand curling around the hilt of his sword, “We should have made a bolder statement. Otto Hightower ought to have received his son’s head as our reply.”

“I will not break convention and have you kill an envoy. It is not a precedent I wish to set,” Rhaenyra countered with stern resolve. “This is not the manner in which I intend to begin my reign.”

With an exhale of exasperation, Daemon’s demeanor remained hard and unyielding, his critique sharp. “Few successions have been bloodless. Yours was never going to be. Yielding to their demands would not be the start of your rule, but the end of it–and be assured, it will not be bloodless.”

“They come here in good faith to–”

Daemon interjected with a scoff, “‘Good faith’? They have stolen your throne!”

“Permitting the execution of an envoy would have started a war,” Rhaenyra responded with a sharpness to her voice, carefully modulated to ensure their exchange remained somewhat private. She did not appreciate Daemon opposing her so openly in front of their men, nor did she appreciate his disregard for convention and what it would mean to break it. 

“The war has already started,” Daemon contested, his stance unyielding. 

“Then should it not fall upon me to quell it before it costs us any more?” Rhaenyra retorted, her gaze fierce, her hand resting against her stomach. 

He scrutinized her with an intensity that bore his frustration and disapproval, his gaze as sharp as the sword at his hip. “You cannot seriously be contemplating their offer.”

“Daemon, they have my daughter,” Rhaenyra said, her voice laced with a desperation born of maternal fear–and she wished she could strip her voice of it. Her grip tightened around the letter, it’s touch almost scalding in her hand–unopened and filled with unread words, yet still potent in its very existence. “My only daughter. I cannot–I will not–risk her safety for the ambition of a crown. The terms they offer are good–”

“It’s a farce!” He spat out, his disdain palpable. “They offer crumbs and call it a feast. They mock you by ‘granting’ what is already yours to hold. And your sons, they mean to award them with the inheritances that are already theirs.” He closed the distance between them, his stance imposing, his fury as tangible as the flames of a dragon’s breath. “And our sons… They mean to have them bear cups and shields for that drunken cunt. How do you think they will treat them? Hmm? They will be no more than hostages–if they even live.” His eyes burned with rage. “To accept these terms is to sign our own death warrants–all of us. The moment you bend the knee to the usurper cunt of a king, our fates are sealed. Otto Hightower will not allow any claimant to the throne to live–for men to rally behind.”

Rhaenyra’s own ire surged as Daemon’s words lashed at her, her gaze shifting away, unable to face the piercing truth in his eyes. “I don’t believe Alicent–”

“Don’t fool yourself into believing she harbors any kindness for you. She has a viper for a father and she is sure to have the same venom,” Daemon interjected harshly. “Do not forget what she has put you through. Your father might have yielded to their demands. Do not make his mistakes. Where is your fire?”

Her gaze whipped back to him, fierce and defiant. “They have Daenera.”

“And if you cede to their demands, then you risk the lives of your other children.” The implication of what he was saying seemed to crackle in the air like thunder.

“And if it was your daughter? Would you dismiss her so easily?” Rhaenyra challenged, her voice sharp, slicing through the tension between them. Daemon’s response was a silent, penetrative look that mingled revulsion at her seeming capitulation with his own tempest of anger. 

Rhaenyra’s voice was firm as she continued, “I understand your disappointment in Daenera, and I know you fear she has aligned with the Greens. But she is still my daughter. She was prepared to sacrifice herself to prevent this conflict–and we should take that into account. She was ready to sacrifice herself for us, Daemon. That is not something a traitor would have done…”

Daemon’s fingers tapped irritably against the pommel of his sword, his frustration palpable in the tight set of his jaw. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily before he spoke. 

“Daenera might not be a traitor,” he acknowledged, each word strained like a tightly drawn bow. “And I genuinely hope she isn’t, but I am concerned that her love for that one-eyed cunt may change that–and I’m concerned that your love for her will cloud your judgment.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. 

“That letter will suggest surrender, and you won’t find any true sentiments of hers in it… If you surrender for the sake of your daughter it could cost you everything else.” His tone was firm, yet there was a gentle quality to it–like that of the flat softness of a blade. “You must not bend the knee, Rhaenyra. Not even for your daughter.”

“My decisions must reflect what is best for our family and the realm.”

With a heavy pause, Daemon stood back, staring at her before he averted his gaze, a gesture so charged with finality and repulsion that Rhaenyra felt as though a wave of icy water crashed over her. Turning away, he began his departure, his movements slicing through the silent, watchful crowd of their guard. They parted for him as he walked through them, enveloped in his own storm of fury. 

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on the torn page and letters she held, carefully tucking them into a hidden pocket within her bodice–a safeguard to ensure their security. Her eyes briefly connected with Syrax’s, witnessing the dragon’s powerful wings flap before she soared into the sky, leaving Rhaenyra to undertake the journey back on foot. Perhaps this was a mercy; she doubted her ability to endure the saddle once more. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Rhaenyra gently touched the area of discomfort in her lower abdomen. The pain was acute, reminiscent of labor, yet her womb was empty–the hollowness aching. With each step, the fabric of her underclothes clung uncomfortably to her skin, exacerbating her discomfort. Her pace was slow, not by choice but necessity, every muscle in her body protesting the movements. 

“My Queen…” Ser Erryk Cargyll’s voice broke through her focus, his hand poised near her lower back in a gesture of support. As she paused, resting her hand against the cool, rough texture of the bridge’s wall, the contrast between the stone’s solidity and her own fragile state became apparent. 

Rhaenyra dismissed Ser Erryk’s concern with a shake of her head, clenching her jaw tightly to combat the waves of nausea and pain engulfing her. With sheer determination, she walked the remaining distance to the castle gates, her every movement through the courtyard and into the castle’s vast interior a testament to her will. The effort to maintain a composed exterior did little to ease the discomfort radiating along her spine and the acute, burning sensation that plagued her with every step. 

Upon entering her privat quarters, Rhaenyra found Lady Elinda Massey at the settee, carefully folding a blanket. Startled by Rhaenyra’s sudden appearance, Elinda’s hands paused, her expression shifting to concern as she abandoned her task and hurried over. “Your Grace!”

Rhaenyra, too overwhelmed to respond, staggered towards the chamber pot and was soon gripped by a bout of nausea, her stomach heaving as the stress of recent events took its physical toll. As she succumbed to the convulsions, tears mingled with her distress, clouding her sight and dampening her cheeks. 

Elinda immediately sprang into action, her voice laced with urgency as she comforted Rhaenyra. Her hands traced soothing circles across her back, trying to offer some relief amidst the tumult of her queen’s suffering. “I’ll send for the maester immediately.”

Without a word, Rhaenyra made her way to the chamber pot, succumbing to the urge to vomit, her body wracked with convulsions as tears blurred her vision. The chill of a shudder went down the weary muscles of her spine.

In the solitude of her chambers, Rhaenyra composed herself as Lady Elinda scurried off to summon assistance. With a trembling hand, she brushed away any remnants of tears from her cheeks, the bitter taste of bile souring her mouth. She winced at the sight of the regurgitated bread and cheese in the chamberpot–the scant breakfast she had managed to stomach earlier.

Methodically, she retrieved the papers she had tucked into her bodice, spreading them carefully across the surface of the dressing table. Her fingers clung to the table’s edge, seeking its stability. Lifting her eyes to meet her own reflection in the mirror, Rhaenyra faced the weary visage that stared back at her. The strain of the day’s revelations was etched deeply into her features, revealing the heavy burden of her royal duties and personal sorrows.

Her complexion remained pallid, a fine layer of perspiration glossing her skin, while the wind had left her hair disheveled and her eyes reflecting the depth of her fatigue and distress–there remained a haunted look to her weariness. With hands that trembled slightly, she reached up to unburden herself of the crown that rested heavily upon her head, setting aside the emblem of her authority and heritage. 

The crown of Jaehaerys was a marvel of craftsmanship, combining gold and silver in a delicate yet imposing design. The front was adorned with the sigil of House Targaryen, the formidable three-headed dragon, symbolizing her lineage’s power and her claim. Encircling the band were the sigils of the Great Houses that had all bend the knee of Aegon the Conqueror–Houses Stark, Arryn, Tyrell, Tully, Baratheon, and Lannister. 

Every one of them had knelt before her, swearing fealty with their houses’ strength and unwavering loyalty. Now, with the shadow of possible war stretching across the realm and the specter of turmoil beckoning, she wondered the steadfastness of their support. 

As the crown lay beside her, a silent question hung in the air, mirrored in her weary gaze: How many of these houses would stand beside her in the trials to come? And would it be worth it laying waste to the realm for her to sit the Iron Throne?

“Help me with this,” Rhaenyra’s voice was hoarse with weariness as she fumbled with the fastening of her cloak, her hands trembling. 

Elinda, ever attentive and seasoned in her role as lady-in-waiting, approached with gentle haste. With practiced hands, she eased the cloak from Rhaenyra’s shoulders, allowing the heavy, dark material to rest over the back of a chair. She then proceeded to assist her with her dress, carefully undoing the fastenings of the gown, the rich fabric whispering against itself as it was opened and slid down to pool at her feet. Following this, the inner layer was also removed, leaving Rhaenyra in her undergarments–a chemise of fine cotton and breeches, both stained with blood and clinging uncomfortably to her skin.

Seeking a moment’s respite, Rhaenyra moved towards a chair set before the warmth of the hearth. Elinda was quick to cushion the seat with a soft pillow, before Rhaenyra lowered herself, easing down on it, a sound of discomfort falling from her lips. 

The distinct sound of Maester Gerardys’s approach was heralded by the gentle clinking of his maester’s chains, a sound that carried the weight of his office and expertise. He entered the chamber with a furrowed brow, his expression etched with concern as he navigated the room to place his medical satchel upon the table adjacent to Rhaenyra. In tandem, Elinda approached, bearing a basin filled with steaming water. With care, she set it beside the maester’s bag, then soaked a cloth in the warm water, gently pressing it against Rhaenyra’s damp forehead.

“Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys gently approached her, settling himself on the stool positioned in front of her. His tone was laced with concern, his eyes settling on the blood on her undergarments. “You’ve pushed yourself beyond your limits, you should not exert yourself in such a manner.” 

The stool scratched loudly against the floor as he moved closer. “Please, Your Grace, if you will…”

Obligingly, Rhaenyra shifted closer to the edge of the chair, angling her hips and spreading her legs as she gathered the hem of her chemise to grant the maester access to her injuries. Her gaze lingered on the deepening frown of worry that marred the maesters forehead as he assessed her. 

His eyes flickered up to her, his head shaking softly as he chided at her, “You shouldn’t have ridden–and a dragon at that. You’ve exerted too much pressure and a stitch has come loose. It is imperative that I cleanse the wound before applying a new stitch to prevent any further complications and let the tear heal faster…”

Rhaenyra pressed her thumb to the inner corner of her eye, making a dismissive sound, and with a faint, weary nod, her gaze drifted to the ceiling, her eyes tracing the intricate patterns etched in the stone as Maester Gerardys rummaged through his satchel. TThe soft clatter of glass vials and the gentle clinking of bottles resonated in the quiet room as he searched for the necessary instruments. 

“You might find relief in some milk of the poppy,” Maester Gerardys suggested, his voice a blend of compassion and professional advice, intending to ease her forthcoming discomfort. 

“No. I’ll have none,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice tinged with fatigue. She had witnessed firsthand the numbing haze induced by the milk of the poppy, observed its hold on her father, who under its influence, seemed adrift, scarcely aware of his own daughter and brother beside him. Such a clouded existence was not something she wished to endure. 

“The application of the stitch might bring considerable discomfort, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys cautioned. “You should not have to suffer the pain of it.”

“No milk of the poppy,” Rhaenyra asserted firmly, a note of annoyance weaving its way into her tone. “I can bear the pain. I will not have it cloud my mind, I need my senses with me.”

The pain of the procedure seemed minuscule compared to the trials she had already endured. The thought offered her a cold comfort; if she could withstand the tempests that had battered her during labor, surely she could bear the sharp bite of a needle’s stitch.

Acknowledging her decision, Gearardys sighed softly, placing the bottle with a foggy white liquid back into his bag. His hands then emerged holding what appeared to be slender sticks. “Your daughter procured these from the Kingswood.”

“Twigs?” Rhaenyra said skeptically. 

A small smile formed on Gerardys lips. “It's the bark of the white willow tree. It should alleviate some of your pain.”

She eyed the bark with a skeptical curiosity, “You want me to eat these?”

“They are not for consumption but for you to chew on,” he clarified, presenting a few shavings to her. “The white willow’s bark acts as a natural alleviant. It is not as effective in relieving pain as milk of the poppy, but it should offer some comfort.” He turned to Elinda as she, too, was eyeing the bark. “Lady Elinda, if you could steep these shavings in boiling water, it would make a beneficial tea for Her Grace.”

He handed Elinda a portion of willow bark and a small pouch of hers, presumably, to enhance the tea, she nodded and moved to the hearth. The maester then dampened a cloth, wiping some of the blood off her inner thighs, a concentrated and worried expression on his face. 

Rhaenyra, still somewhat dubious, reluctantly took a bite of the chewy bark. The earthy, bitter taste spread across her tongue, overpowering the acrid taste of bile that had otherwise clung to her tongue. The sound of water being set to boil filled the chamber, the crackle of fire a familiar and comforting. 

As the water cascaded over her swollen and wounded cunt, Rhaenyra couldn’t help but wince, the sensation akin to flames licking at her already tender flesh. She tensed, a grimace forming as she braced herself for the pain, hastily stuffing the rest of the bark shavings into her mouth and chewing with a visible grimace.

Maester Gerardys proceeded with utmost care, washing away the blood with a gentle touch. He delicately removed the remnants of the torn suture, prompting Rhaenyra to clench her jaw tighter, her fingers embedding themselves into the wooden armrests of the chair as she fought the urge to recoil. The maester’s eyes, full of concern, met hers as he signaled his readiness to mend the tear with a new stitch. 

With a barely perceptible nod, Rhaenyra allowed her head to recline, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, seeking distraction in its cold, unyielding expanse. The needle’s entry was a sharp bite, a pain so acute she could only grit her teeth harder, her entire being coiled in the anticipation of more pain. A low, pained sound escaped her lips as she endeavored to swallow the bitterness in her mouth, hoping it would alleviate the sharp sting of the needle as it drew through her wounded flesh.

There was a certain clarity to the pain, a singular focus that pierced through the fog of her weariness. It was a sensation both known and oddly comforting, different from the deep, unyielding emptiness that had taken root within her. The physical pain of childbirth was a familiar force, one she had faced down seven times over. But the sorrow of this birth, the sheer magnitude of the losses she had suffered, cast a shadow far deeper than any physical wound could inflict. It was a desolation amplified by the absence of the child she had hoped to hold, leaving her with nothing but the echo of her pain and the void of her embrace.

She couldn’t help but admire the strength of her own mother, who had endured this cycle of hope and heartbreak time and time again. How had she managed to bear the weight of so many lost possibilities, so many silent cradles? The thought burrowed deep, mingling with her own grief. 

Rhaenyra stifled a grunt, her form tensing as the needle pierced her once more, the maester’s murmured apology barely registering. Her gaze was fixed on the flames flickering across the room, their glow casting the stone ceiling the flames, an intricate dance between light and shadow. 

“Done,” Gerardys announced, tucking the needle and thread back into his satchel with a finality that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room.

With effort, Rhaenyra raised her head, spitting the chewed willowbark into a chamberpot Elinda had thoughtfully positioned at her side. She rinsed her mouth with sweet wine, her face contorting at the clash of flavors–the residual bitterness of the bark wrestling with the wine’s richness. She chased the lingering bitter bark with her tongue, spitting repeatedly into the pot, striving to cleanse her pallet before finally pushing the wine aside with a soft, “Thank you.”

Her leg muscles quivered as she adjusted her posture in the chair, inhaling sharply through the discomfort. As she positioned herself more upright, the tender, swollen skin of her cunt brushed against the cushion beneath her, sending a wave of pain through her body.

“Rest now, Your Grace,” Maester Gerardys urged gently, his voice a blend of concern and wisdom. “Allow the body the time it needs to recover… the soul as well.”

“Rest seems more a luxury than a necessity at this moment,” Rhaenyra replied, extending her hand for support, her tone resolute. “I will rest when I am dead.”

This response only deepened the furrow in Maester Gerardys’s brow, his gaze laden with concern as he assisted her to rise. Holding her hand, he imparted a moment of solemn counsel, “Such words are born of youthful fervor, Your Grace. True wisdom lies in recognizing the need for rest, particularly when the body and spirit yearn for it. An eternally vigilant mind risks losing its way.”

“I don’t intend to forsake rest altogether,” Rhaenyra clarified, offering a weary smile. “However, now is not the time for rest, and I fear that should I try, I will not find it.”

Despite her body’s exhaustion, Rhaenyra was besieged by a whirlwind of thoughts, the looming shadow of war hanging over her and the decisions she had yet to make. What would war mean for the realm? Death and despair? For her? For her children? The notion of sleep felt like a fanciful dream, a fleeting escape from the weariness that had seeped into her marrow. And out of the periphery of her mind, there lingered a fear, a trepidation that in the quiet of rest, she might confront the vast emptiness within, a silence filled only by the remnants of her losses. 

Maester Gerardys, ever observant, cast a look of understanding her way. “When you are ready, I shall prepare a draught to ease you into sleep.”

“Thank you, Maester,” Rhaenyra replied, her gratitude genuine though suffused with fatigue. She squeezed his hand a little before releasing it.

As the Maester moved through the chamber, the soft chime of his chain punctuating the silence, Rhaenyra’s gaze drifted to the blanket draped over the settee. A surge of emotion tightened her chest as she approached and lifted it, her fingers tenderly trancing the embroidered flowers adorning the plush fabric. With each touch, her heart splintered further, tears welling in her eyes as she brought the blanket close, searching for a scent that might connect her to the daughter she would never know.

She had no frame of reference for what her daughter might have smelled like–the coppery essence of blood, the peculiar aroma of birth waters–these were all she had. Would her daughter have carried the scent of lavender that seemed to follow Daenera, or perhaps the richer undertone of pine that marked Jace? Or maybe she would have possessed the indescribable scent unique to newborns until she had grown too old? Yet the blanket offered none of these; it bore only the clean, impersonal fragrance of soap and rosemary–of being clean. 

The absence of any familiar or discernible scent left her feeling hollow, an unexpected layer of loss adding to her grief. The disappointment was a quiet, gnawing presence, a silent echo of all that had been lost already. She thought, at the very least, that it should smell of someone.

All that remained to her of her daughter, her little Visenya, was a lingering ache within her womb and the throbbing pain that haunted her every step.

“Elinda, could you return this to Luke?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice ragged with weariness. Ever since Daenera had gifted it to him, Luke had taken to sleeping with it every night. At the tender age of six, with him just shy of four, her youthful fingers had awkwardly moved the needle through the fabric, her inexperience visible in every imperfect stitch. Years had passed, yet time had done little to refine her skills in embroidery. Despite its flaws, each stitch was imbued with warmth and affection, and Rhaenyra held it to her face for a moment, once again breathing in the scent of no one. 

Elinda offered her a nod, approaching her with a warm cup of tea. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“And before you leave, would you help me dress? I need to be presentable.” Rhaenyra let the blanket rest on the settee before moving around the sitting area, each step marked by the discomfort from the fresh stitch and the residual ache of childbirth. She moved to the water basin, splashing her face with water, the coolness a brief respite, and gently patted her skin dry, erasing the traces of her ordeal. Elinda then carefully untied the chamise, letting the stained garment drop to the floor. 

With gentle hands, Elinda dabbed at Rhaenyra’s skin with a damp cloth, soothing away the sweat and the poignant smell of dragon. Once cleansed, Rhaenyra was helped into fresh undergarments–a new chamise and cotton breeches, thoughtfully prepared with an extra cloth for added protection against any further bleeding. The first layer of her dress was then draped over her, followed by the outer layer, each piece meticulously fastened with small golden clasps.

Seated before the mirror, Rhaenyra allowed Elinda to carefully release her hair, working through the tangles that had formed during her flight on Syrax. A dull headache throbbed with the tempo of her heart, and she nursed the bitter tea, feeling it somewhat ease the tension. 

Her gaze, reflective and distant, landed on the torn page. With a sense of purpose, she reached out, gathering the remnants, letting them rest before her. 

A tide of bitterness surged within Rhaenyra, accompanied by the familiar sting of tears threatening to break through once again. The memory of her recent promise to return to King’s Landing haunted her, along with the fragile hope Alicent had sown–a hope for reconciliation, for mending the fractures of a friendship that had once been steadfast. Now, reflecting on that hope, Rhaenyra felt it might have been a fool’s wish. The chasm between them had widened too much, irreparable as the torn page that rested before her.

Yet, she had chosen to preserve the page. Despite the option to discard it, Alicent had kept it all these years. 

And with a cruelty that was once love, she had used it in this way. 

The message was twofold: a plea from the friend of her youth, imploring her to flee to safety across the narrow sea, as Princess Nymeria had once done. And from the Queen, a solemn warning: the consequences of remaining dire. 

Her gaze found the lone flame flickering in the quiet room, and she contemplated the act of burning the torn pieces in the fire. Yet, a part of her soul, a vestige of hope or perhaps what was left of the friendship, resisted.Thus, she carefully placed the torn pieces into a wooden chest, a repository for the letters her daughter had sent her during her time in King’s Landing. Her hand rested on the wooden chest, thumb caressing its surface before pushing it back into place. 

“The council has gathered, Your Grace,” Ser Lorent Marbrand announced, standing at the threshold of her chambers. 

Rhaenyra acknowledged Ser Lorent with a slight nod and lifted herself from the stool, her movements rigid and laborious. Her hand trailed over the smooth wood of the table, hesitating when her fingers encountered the sealed letter resting there. She lacked the strength to break its seal, her apprehension of the known veiled as dread of the unknown.

With a weary sigh, she left the letter where it lay, untouched and unopened, the wax seal remaining intact–a symbol of her reluctance to face what was written inside. The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of decisions unmade pressing heavily upon her shoulders as she turned away from the table.

Rhaenyra was almost through the threshold of her chambers when Elinda’s voice called out, a note of urgency in her tone. “Your Grace, your crown!”

Pausing, Rhaenyra turned to see the crown, the physical embodiment of her duty and burden. It lay on the table, its intricate metalwork gleaming dully in the muted light. Her gaze rested upon it, feeling its weight in her very soul.

“It is a heavy one, indeed,” she murmured, her voice raw with resignation. She turned and walked out.

As Daemon strode along the walled path leading back to Dragonstone Castle, irritation pulsed beneath his skin like a relentless itch. His grip on the pommel of his sword tightened with each hurried step. Frustration seethed within him, fueled by Rhaenyra’s hesitation–her reluctance to decisively reject the Hightowers audacious terms, her failure to support his impulse to strike down Gwayne Hightower as the traitor he was, gnawed at him. But above all, his frustration mounted over her contemplation of the enemy’s demands. 

Despite his agitation, a small part of Daemon understood her predicament. He acknowledged the weight of recent losses that clouded Rhaenyra’s judgment, the unbearable thought of additional losses pressing down upon her. Yet, he believed she needed to recognize her responsibilities–not just to their family but as Queen as well. The dual burdens of personal grief and the demands of leadership tugged at her, yet Daemon felt she must rise above the emotional turmoil to see her duty clear. The kingdom required her strength and resolve now more than ever, and he reprehensible that she would even consider the terms they had given her.

As Daemon had left Dragonstone to confront the green delegation, he had encountered Ser Brandon Piper, who had breathlessly rushed towards him with a letter in hand. Daemon had hastily broken the seal and read through the contents, which seemed to quell some of his inner turmoil regarding Daenera. The letter, penned by a reliable ally, confirmed that she was alive and well, subtly resisting the Greens in the limited ways available to her–standing vigil over those they perceived traitors. 

Each step he took brought him closer to the towering gates of Dragonstone castle. Guards lined the walls, their presence dispersed along them in a vigilant display of force. Yet, despite the fortress’s fortifications, a restless agitation continued to drive him forward.

Perhaps he had been too quick to judge her actions as those of a traitor–and he had been relieved to hear that that might not have been the case. Daenera was not a traitor, but a hostage, a role that Daemon found easier to forgive. 

Yet, despite this understanding, the seed of doubt sown by her prior betrayals–the lies and deceit for the sake of keeping her relationship with Aemond quiet–had taken root deep within him, and it was not so easy to uproot. 

Daemon paced up the steps, his thoughts stormy as he mulled over Daenera’s impending marriage to the one-eyed cunt. He couldn’t deny that she had fallen in love with the boy, but this affection, Daemon feared, could turn her away from her family–and this he could not forgive. 

The Greens meant to use Daenera as a way of influencing Rhaenyra, a simple tool to force her into submission. Daemon found the mere thought intolerable. The idea that Rhaenyra might even consider yielding to their demands ignited a fierce rage within him. To accept their terms would be to expose their throats to the vipers, a surrender that would only lead to their destruction. Once they showed weakness, the Greens would not hesitate to eliminate any threats to their power, starting with those who had more claim to the throne than them.

Daemon was beyond exasperated by Rhaenyra’s willful blindness to this peril–like her father before her, she refused to accept that they had to fight for their crown and secure their rule. Accepting the Greens’ terms would not only be accepting of a grave insult but a fatal error. 

He had observed a flicker of determination in Rhaenyra as they confronted the demands from the Greens, even going as far as giving them her demands. He had swelled with pride at her initial defiance, only to be disheartened as her resolve waned, shaken by the reminder of them holding her daughter. 

War was inevitable, and sacrifices necessary–something which Daenera appeared to grasp more than her mother. 

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, its departing light threw elongated shadows across the stone paths of Dragonstone. Daemon, driven by a restless energy, bypassed the castle’s inviting warmth and instead ascended the winding staircase to the battlements. From his elevated vantage point, he watched Rhaenyra’s arrival through the castle gates. Her appearance was a blend of determination and weariness: cheeks flushed from the long walk, her usually poised hair tousled by the wind, creating a striking image of her internal turmoil as she moved through the courtyard and into the castle. 

Daemon’s chest tightened with a mix of indignation and frustration as he contemplated Rhaenyra’s possible compliance. Within him, apprehension coiled like a serpent, whispering that she might succumb to the same weaknesses that had plagued her father. He had ceaselessly warned Viserys of the Hightowers’ ambition, yet his caution had been dismissed, his presence often shunned for the truths he dared voice. How many times had he been cast aside for laying bare the venomous reach of the Hightowers? Otto Hightower had woven his web meticulously around the king, ensnaring Viserys and poisoning his mind against his own brother. Viserys had always been weak of will, had always sought to placate and be amiable–he was a good man, but he did not possess the resolve to be a good king, and House Targaryen had suffered for it. 

And now, Rhaenyra displaced the same tendency. He could not comprehend why she, fierce and fiery far beyond her father, seemed ready to restrain her own formidable spirit. In his eyes, her willingness to negotiate, to delay, projected weakness–a stark contrast to the blazing dragonblood that flowed through their veins, which demanded dominance and commanded respect. 

They were dragonriders, they were the blood of the dragon, and they should not be made to grovle at the feet of serpents. 

Daemon believed that if Rhaenyra would just let him loose to unleash chaos, to do what he was born for, they would swiftly defeat their enemies. He could have the heads of their enemies adorning the castle walls before the moon turned, if only she gave him the chance. Rhaenyra could rightfully claim her throne, surrounded by her family’s unwavering strength and unity.

He brooded over the past, convinced that if his brother only listened to his warnings about the Hightowers, they would not be facing the conflict they were now–The Red Keep would not be the home to a nest of vipers. These serpents slither through its halls, spreading their poisoned lies and deceit, turning the castle into a breeding ground for treason and corruption. It would instead be a home for dragons, as it was meant to be. 

Had Viserys taken Daemon’s counsel to heart, they would not be facing the threat of war. There would be no disputes tearing at the fabric of the realm; instead, there would only be the unchallenged might of House Targaryen. The realm would be united under the strong and undisputed rule of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen–and Daemon would be at her side, protecting her as he was meant to. 

Even if it was from herself.

[badshipshitblog]

strilondecest fic reclist :p

expressions of trust by cmdonovann (dirkdave, t, 4k) essential to my dirk characterization tbh. classic earth c roommates fic

stasis state by caeslin (dirkdave, t, 3k) postcanon dirk & dave stewing. great atmosphere

lockdown by strititty (dirkdave, m, 6k [wip]) post-pesterquest hangouts. very cute teen dirk & i love how depressed dave is lol. actually got me to watch dirk's PQ route!

handpuppets by 2x2verse (brodave, e, 2k) fisting. "handpuppets." need i say more?

constructive possession by propaganda (brodave, e, 10k) humanstuck au w insanely good ambiance & bro pov. bro & dave are haunted by grief for their third brother

spend half your life just covering up by hapaxlegomena (brodave, e, 10k) postgame, bro apologizes. really gets at how an abusive guardian will shape your whole concept of love/sex

find me at sea (and tell me why you never loved me) by blackestofmarkets (dirkdave, m, 23k) postcanon, dave finds dirk in europe. rlly good at evoking mood

hey dave do you ever think about laying my neck down in one of those deli counter meat slicers and going to town on it like a salami by problemsloth (dirkdave, e, 7k) i love corpsefucking. i also love banter

a slow boiling pot by ghostlyanarchist (alphacest, e, 5k) dave keeps passing out in dirk's bed. i love a pathetic alpha dave <3

temptations by forkidcest (alphacest, e, 6k) a demon possesses dave & lets on how he feels about his little bro

phase change by timeaxis (dirkdave, m, 15k) of the post-epilogues dave & rose upending narrative control genre

everything in its right place by laurasauras (dirkrosemary, e, 11k) rose & kanaya keep ult dirk in line. i am salivating

it could happen to you by innsmouth (roseroxy, m, 3k) family is a monster in the woods. great roxy pov

never good by 2x2verse (roseroxy, e, 7k) munchhausen by proxy recovery sex. makes me insane

everything you need by bumbly (dersepile, t, 20k) postcanon, rose building her polycule

a red space after victory by psythe (daverose, 6k) post-hs2, dave & rose talk it out. gah

sun doesn't rise in space by m0sc4 (daverosekan, t, 9k) stranded in a spaceship with corpses & an alien

didn't even close our eyes by signalbeam (daveroseroxy, e, 3k) roxy's dreamself appears on the meteor. great rose pov

it led us here by laurasauras (alpha daverose, e, 18k) hot old parents daverose!! very adorable strider family!! smart house hal!!!

light you up light you down by lionpyh (alpha daverose, g, 5k) the definitive alpha daverose fic. my fave of all time

[prisiidon]

🔱 Caeruleis - Ocean Zora 🔱

Expanded my ocean zora city from 2017 >:) Feel free to add zora residents to this city!✨ {Zora Cybele lore courtesy of @mochamart-tm} 🐳 here's the toyhou'se page if its easier to read there!

Refer back to the og page for the most updated version

Location: In the distant Eastern Sea (East of Necluda) | Type: Republic capital city (no monarchy) | Alliances: Zora's Domain, Arctic Kingdom, Yona's Domain, Deep Sea Empire @cassielsunstone

Summary: Far out to sea lies a massive and somewhat hidden underwater city renown for their military superpower, airpocketed architecture, oIympic stadium, large market, prestigious learning institute and their colourful glowing plant-life. This city is home to a variety of species where their culture is intertwined with their guardian leviathan cybeles: Circa and Vellanora (c) @mochamart-tm.

Due to ongoing tensions with the Forbidden Sea and the abundance of sea monsters and pirates, Caeruleis appointed itself the protectorate of the eastern sea {extended military notes here}. The most formidable and tactile soldiers are in this ocean.

Filomena is the current Head Governess. General Lionel is an honorary member of the high council, accompanied by his adjutant (Lieutenant General) Byers.

↓ Keep reading for more info about main features, culture, history and characteristics etc below!!

🔱 Main Features 🔱

Floating Trade Dock: A small village on the ocean surface, above the citadel. For trading purposes.​​​​

Zora OIympics: As a capital city they host grand sport events in their own stadium.

Grand Caeruleis Library: In the capital lies an awe-inspiring underwater library affiliated with their university. Philosophers, historians, alchemists, artists and scientists work and study here. One notable zora residing here is Sea-monster Specialist Niles.

Lumina Park: Like a botanical garden but underwater, where the plantlife are colourful glowing corals and seaweeds like in Subnautica.

Market: Huge market for food, artisan crafts, jewelry and other knickknacks

Cybele Statue: (lore @mochamart-tm) In the city plaza stands a statue of the Cybele leviathans Circa and Vellanora. Due to the reappearance of the Cybeles, the citadel occasionally provides offerings and prayers to their deities to continue being blessed by their protection. The biggest celebration is the return of the large Cybele Festival that now occurs once a year on the date the Cybele Circa reappeared. It's tradition for child zoras to weave garlands for the Cybele for this day.

Valley of The Fallen: A barren seabed of staked weapons (graveyard) honoring deceased soldiers.

Kelp forests / biomes: like you see in Subnautica

Twisting Tunnels: dangerous and fast currents flow through a labyrinth of tunnels. Very fun, but can give you some decent bruises if you're not careful.

Current Highways: like you see in Nemo lol, allows faster travel as they’re far away. Depending on the route you may need to travel with a Guardian Travel Leviathan!

Travel Guardians: Highly respected giant zora and leviathans who know the safe routes and travel with you. They keep tabs on creature territories and know how to negotiate passage if there's  any run ins.  E.g giant basking shark zora who vacuums up sea octoroks.  Some take mail with them!

The Big Conch: Tourist attraction. They say you can talk to an ocean god if you go inside of it, but it never answers. Actually worked in the far past, but that ocean deity is gone now. Rarely, some may hear whispers...

Statue of Volitan: This statue is located near the city garrison, a notable commander in the ancient past

Alliance specifics: Weaponry, auxiliaries, military aid, events, trade, underwater fantasy veg, knowledge, prosthetics, alchemy, sea monster management

🔱 Other 🔱

Accent: Cultivated Australian Accent

Depth: between the light zone and twilight zone.

Common regalia: anything is fine! Mainly it's whitegold, white gold palladium (14-18k), champagne stainless steel, bronze, red kelp, red or orange fabric, light blue/cyan gemstones and/or pearls, with shell shapes in the regalia. All waterproofed. Some stones have magic properties (water lol)

Social: Many don’t speak as formal as Zora’s Domain as they have no royalty. While being altruistic, protective, humble, food-driven and mighty, they tend to like spending time in mutual quietness (vibing). They have expressive hand/facial gestures, languidly flick their headtails and undulate/flare their fins. As there's much larger creatures than them in the open sea, they stick together and watch eachothers back, just like schools of fish. Toddler zora do infact school like fish.

Physique: Bigger lung capacity, may have bigger/more gills and not really used to walking on land (sore neck/back too on land due to less neck musculature that holds their head up out of water) More likely to be bioluminescent. Improved cold tolerance than land zora. (cannot withstand the arctic without cold resistance elixirs tho)

Diet: High fat thermal diet like Hearty Salmon, Mackerel, abalone etc as they swim aLOT. Also eat mussel, crustaceans and edible anemone. Low tolerance to land food (fiber/sugar/milk etc so they have their own fantasy underwater veg lol) Consuming Lantern Fish allows them to glow in dark areas of the ocean, like Cave Fish in-game

Stronger zora weapons: including underwater bow/harpoons.

Incubation: Their nursery for their eggs are nearby the city's hydrothermal vents (they call them Vent Springs), for the warmth and rich minerals they expel. Also where zora can rejuvenate.

Sonar communication: Other than verbal communication and signing, ocean zora have become adept at their own sonar clicks and tunes to communicate/locate eachother out of earshot. Whale/dolphin zora have greater range: they're ecolocators who can detect distant sea monsters.

Conch Shell Communication: Like a shellphone lol but the communication isn't that far!

Military headquarters: Only accessible through another currented tunnel network that only authorized officers know how to  navigate. The magic of the tunnel will spit anyone it deems an intruder back outside the walls or into a trap room.

Wedding traditions

seaweed-based packaging

Fin & Headtail Prosthetics: If ocean zora have these amputated, they will sink and wouldn’t be able to swim. Thus they've designed prosthetics. Esp bc soldiers can have accidents with aggro seamonsters.

Calamity: During this time Kahn was the General, and they were essentially cut off due to so many maliced leviathans blocking the route. Attempts to send auxiliaries and reinforcements were in vain despite their best efforts due to this. They also had their hands full with the Forbidden Sea taking advantage of the chaos. Many alliances were affected because of the calamity. Not long before the Calamity ended, Lionel became General, and Filomena was elected as Head Governess. Trade and reforming alliances resumed!

⚔️ History - story time ⚔️

Leviathan Cybeles, when there were more, were heavily worshiped in ancient times.. out of fear. Ancient Caeruleis zora had to relocate countless times from seamonsters or natural disasters (e.g coral bleaching), becoming cautious and territorial of large creatures that ate them, even of the cybele leviathans, who did not. Whether it was be cybeles themselves or by corrupt zora leaders, cybeles were imprisoned as threats. The Eastern Sea is dangerous. 

The cybeles were offered sacrifices, even zora sacrifices. These cybeles however did not eat them, and gained a collection of uneaten sacrifices over time. The sacrifices preferred to stay with the friendly cybeles anyway. Over time, cybeles became myth with rituals lost as ancient Caerulians eventually strayed from their sacrificial history, and became independent to leviathans. Remaining cybeles that hadn't been imprisoned yet had ventured away. The only remnants being forgotten temples, statues and ruins on the deep sea floor and in the Depths' waters. There may even be a fallen cybele lost there, who knows.

Now that Caeruleis is stronger and more fortified, current era Caerulian zora became more open and curious of ancient history and myths, which led to the search and release of deities. They are revered and loved by the ocean zora once more, while also atoning for their past.

Chief Commander Volitan: Having been accused of conspiracy/treason against the corrupt leaders for wanting change, they went as a sacrifice instead of execution. Some of his loyal soldiers also volunteered to be sacrificed. Seeing these cybeles as no threat, Volitan had an idea to form a secret platoon, who then overthrew the corrupt leaders with the released cybele by their side.

Return of the Cybele Circa (current era): Upon Lionel touching Volitan's staked glaive that called for him in effort to stop a war to end all wars with the Forbidden Sea, led by former General Kahn, a series of images flashed of a legendary leviathan, lost to time. The power within the glaive urged Lionel to take it as his. With Niles finding old folklore scriptures within the archives, they sought distant Shrine Priests and Priestesses of the cybeles who deciphered it to be a puzzle.

Taking a platoon with him, Lionel was dropped into the eye of the storm by a brave Rito to investigate. With the glaive's ancient stone, he had finally set her free. From then on the legend resurfaced, now being worshiped and provided offerings just like old times in exchange for her protection.

[silvershadow1711]

I was going through my old fics looking for one in particular, and I found another that I had almost forgotten about. It's a Gunter-centric story I never finished that was meant to serve as a prequel for my Fates series, The Road Not Trekked. I wrote it almost 10 years ago (in 2015), before the game was even localized (the majority of my Fates fics were written/started before we got official names, hence why I always called him "Gunther"- I was going off the fan translation of his character bio). I cleaned it up a bit, but... man it's a trip to read my older works.

(And note that this is just the first... chapter? Part? I just wrote without thinking of proper divisions. "Never finished" means "got 18k words into it before realizing no one was ever going to read this". But maybe some of my fellow freaks on tumblr might enjoy it.)

Word count: 4,096

CW: strong language, mentions of violence/child abuse, descriptions of gore

"Let Me Down"

The day was mild by Nohrian standards, a slight chill in the wind signaling an early return to winter. The days were growing shorter, and what little light remained was used to its fullest. Within the training grounds at Castle Krakenburg, cavaliers and heavy armored knights were running drills. The wyvern-mounted dragoons were out training in one of the nearby fields, partially because they needed more space than the courtyard provided them to practice evasive maneuvers, but mostly because everyone was terrified of being caught beneath one of the monstrous creatures when nature called. It happened more often than anyone cared to recall. Of course, many of the soldiers, especially the newer recruits, quickly realized that they would rather deal with the winged, pooping monsters than the one currently barking out orders at them. 

Sir Gunther was a man who showed little emotion, giving off a detached, almost nonchalant air as he walked up and down the rows of soldiers...  which made it even more terrifying when he rounded on one of them, bringing the flat edge of his lance down hard on whatever chink in their armor was closest.  

    “Stop slouching!” He would bark. “If you can't stand straight in your armor, how the hell will you dodge anything in it?” He was like a snake, striking fast and hard when they least expected it as they ran drills, sweeping their feet out from under them, or landing blows on their hands to make them lose grip of their weapon. Despite his impassive face, Gunther was all but screaming with disgusted exasperation in his mind. These were not soldiers, they were fodder. If they couldn't react to an attack in a brightly lit, relatively safe courtyard, how would they fare against the trickery of the Hoshidans? 

It was not the soldiers fault, though. He knew that. Most of these new recruits could barely be considered adults, villagers and street rats desperate to earn a living wage in light of this new depression that was slowly tightening its stranglehold on Nohr. Three years in a row so far the wheat harvest had failed, leaving the farmers destitute, and the people hungry. There was precious little honest work to be found outside of the army, which itself was in disarray after two Hoshidan blitzes had all but decimated their calvary. Gunther had been on the front lines for the last one, when death came from the shadows and rained from the sky. In all the confusion, it was a reasonable estimate that more Nohrians had fallen victim to friendly fire than to the poisoned arrows that fell upon them. Even the soldiers that hadn't fallen on the battlefield began dropping like flies on the way back to the capital, collapsing as they seized violently, blood gushing from their noses and streaking their vomit. 

It was terrifying to realize that this was what their sanctimonious enemy was capable of. Which was exactly why this new group of cadets needed to be trained well, so they would not fall as quickly and painfully as their predecessors. That was easier said than done, of course, for it seemed that farmers who had until recently only wielded pitchforks and hoes did not easily take to smithed weapons. Gunther brought the handle of his lance down hard on the wrists of one of the female cadets that was holding her own as if it were a sword. How many times, how many dozens of times had he shown them the correct form? He glared at her with such fury that she actually whimpered. 

    “By the gods, if you don't learn to properly hold that lance, I will ram it straight up your cunt. That goes for all of you!” He raised his voice so that he could be heard across the courtyard. Some of the older, more battle hardened knights chuckled under their breath as the cadets stood up straighter, collectively pressing their thighs together, male and female alike. As they began running their formation drills yet again, stiffer this time, and each one making damned sure they held their weapon correctly, it seemed that training might have finally started running smoothly, until the courtyard doors flew open and a young, out-of-breath maid dashed in. It was an unusual sight, as the servants rarely strayed beyond the castle walls. Another instructor, a grizzled looking paladin with a broken nose, approached her, frowning.

    “What is the meaning of this? Haven't you been taught better than to interrupt a training session?” The maid braced her hands on her knees, still struggling to catch her breath. She must've run all the way from the main castle. Brushing her short blonde hair from her face, she straightened a little.

    “Begging your pardon, sir... but I've got orders... from the king himself... to fetch Sir Gunther.” The older soldiers exchanged uneasy looks. It was rarely a good thing to be summoned by King Garon. If you were a woman, it meant that you had caught his eye and he undoubtedly wanted to bed you. If you were a man, you had probably committed some transgression and were going to be executed... unless you were sufficiently attractive, in which case, it stood to reason the king wished to bed you as well. The Nohrian sovereign was not a picky man. Despite the tense uncertainty that had permeated the air, Gunther remained calm as ever. As he stepped forward to follow the maid back to the castle, the paladin stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

    “For the gods' sake, man, what did you do?”

    “Your guess is as good as mine. I expect I'll be back shortly. Until then, keep an eye on my cadets. If anyone drops their weapon... break their fingers.” He made sure to say that last part loud enough for everyone to hear him. Just because he wouldn't be there was no reason for anyone to slack off.

Since he had entered the service of the kingdom of Nohr, Gunther had only been in the throne room of castle Krakenburg a handful of times, one of those times being his formal knighting. Unlike those who wished to climb the social ladder and grow closer to the king's inner circle, he was rather grateful for that fact. Everything he hated about Nohr, and House Krakenburg in particular, originated here. Even as he approached the high throne, the older knight felt loathing bubble inside him like pitch. He held his arms behind his back to hide the way his hands unconsciously clenched into fists. He generally did a good job of hiding his hatred, of tamping down all his emotions and giving the illusion that he simply didn't feel feelings, but even he had his limits. 

Stopping at the foot of the throne, he inclined his head. He should have gone down on one knee, but he had made clear long ago that he would not bow to this.... creature. 

    “Sire. My queen,” he added, as Queen Arete sat beside Garon, perched demurely on the edge of the throne. In her low-cut, black brocade, she looked more like a fancy whore than a queen, at least compared to Queen Katerina. The former queen always dressed conservatively, hiding her womanly charms under layers of silk and lace and fur, everything that the smallfolk imagined a queen should look like. But one should not judge a book by its cover, for though Arete looked like one of the many women vying for the king's favor, she was kind-hearted and demure, nothing like the harpies that had taken over the castle. 

And despite her gentle smile, she looked very uncomfortable. It was only natural, of course, given that at least four of her husband's lovers stood around the throne, glaring hate at her. What kind of fool would want to be at the center of such madness, he wondered. 

After a long moment of staring down at the knight standing before him, King Garon lazily raised a hand and snapped, signaling another maid to rush forth. She carried a long coiled length of braided leather in her hands and, as she handed it to Gunther, he realized it was a whip. The sort used to train wyverns. He stared at it for a moment, but made no move to take it, turning back to his sovereign, a bemused inflection in his voice. 

    “Sire?”

    “You are to take that and go to the Northern Citadel.”

    “And...” he glanced back at the whip. “Train wyverns?”

    “Train our little guest.” The king's voice was a venom filled hiss. “It seems she has been causing trouble for the gracious soldiers and servants who have been caring for her.” Gunther frowned, though one could hardly register a change in his usual countenance. This was beyond insulting.

        “You mean to send me to pick up the slack for soldiers who can't contain a small child?” At this, Arete frowned as well, her high arched brows drawing together in consternation as she turned to her husband.

    “What does he mean, 'small child'? You told me you captured some Hoshidan noble.”

        “And so I did,” Garon murmured soothingly, gently running the backs of his fingers over the curve of her cheek. “It's nothing you need concern yourself with, my star...” Judging by the death glares the concubines sent in her direction, Queen Arete had more pressing concerns than foreign diplomacy. As Garon trailed his fingers over his wife's back, he turned a hard glare towards Gunther. 

   “You will hold your tongue and follow orders. I am sick of hearing complaints about that little savage. I don't care if you have to beat her black and blue, just make her behave. As the gods are my witness, if she will not obey, then she will break…!” Perhaps realizing how unseemly it was for a king to get so riled up over a hostage, he settled back into his seat, dismissing Gunther with a wave of his hand. Breathing deeply, Gunther wordlessly took the whip that was still being offered to him and turned on his heel, eager to leave the stifling air of the court behind him.

Were he a younger man, Gunther would have been muttering curses under his breath as he saddled his horse for the journey to the Northern Citadel. It was a good two hours away from the main castle on horseback, and the road (if one could call the rocky, narrow, winding path a "road") leading to it was treacherous if one wasn't sure-footed. The horse he was tacking, a young courser he had named Caractacus, shook his head violently, trying to throw off the bridle. Training a new horse was almost as painful as training new soldiers, but it was a necessity. Just as so many of their troops had fallen in the last attack, so too did many of their mounts, Gunther's old courser, Prometheus, among them. It had been painful to watch, more painful even than seeing his brothers and sisters in arms dying. They knew what they were getting into, but the poor beast, writhing and crying out in fear and agony as the Kougan's venom slowly coursed through it, had been forced into a fight it had no stake in. A familiar scenario...

A sharp nip on the arm quickly brought him out of his self pity. Scowling, the knight reached for the riding crop he kept tied to his sword belt and gave the horse a sharp smack on the haunches, causing it to rear in pained outrage. Gunther sharply pulled on the bridle. Unlike many members of his regiment, he was not afraid of horses. Which was probably why they always stuck him with the most ornery, ill tempered ones. As the steed continued snorting in frustration, he reached for the whip he'd sat beside the saddle, holding it up for the animal to see. 

    “You keep that up and I'll use this on you next.” It was stupid, speaking to a horse as if it could understand what he was saying, but it made him feel slightly better to take his frustration out on someone. 

As he heaved the saddle onto the horse's back, he shook his head bitterly. He knew damn well he wasn't going to lash a horse with that terrifying thing, even a miserable, ill-tempered hell-horse like this one. He would have felt guilty raising the thing against a wyvern, its intended target. Finally tacked up, he effortlessly climbed onto his mount. The sun was already setting. It would be night before he actually reached the Citadel. Fortunately, he knew the way well, having gone there many times over the course of the war. 

What had, centuries ago, probably been an abbey, had been converted into a holding cell of sorts for prisoners of war. Spies that tried to infiltrate the Krakenburg household, merchants caught dealing with both sides, essentially anyone deemed sympathetic to Hoshido. For two long, excruciating weeks, a little over two decades ago, he himself had been a resident of the tower. Eager to never repeat that experience, Gunther had done everything in his power since then to ensure his loyalty to Nohr would never come into question again. Even raising an inhumane whip against a small child, it seemed.

Though the 'Hoshidan Hostage' was well known through the castle, a shining victory against the savages to the east, it seemed that very few had actually seen her. It was said that the girl was a daughter of a prominent family with close ties to the Hoshidan royal family, but Gunther knew that she was actually one of Hoshido's princesses. He hadn't gone to Chevalier with King Garon that day. An assassin had slipped into the castle earlier that week and killed the young Lady Arabella, so he along with a smaller band of soldiers had been ordered to stay behind and double patrols. 

It was just as well, for bringing a large number of soldiers to sign a non-aggression treaty would've seemed suspicious. And who needed soldiers when you could just hire outlaws to ambush your enemies? At least, that was what Garon had bragged to him when the royal caravan returned in joyful triumph. They no longer had to worry about Sumeragi ordering suicidal strikes against them, and his whore queen Mikoto wouldn't dare launch a counter offensive against them when she had to worry that her precious whelp's life would also hang in the balance. Women were so easy to manipulate, the king said, which seemed like a poor jape given that many concubines held more sway over his daily life than he did. 

Gunther didn't pay attention to news from Hoshido, so he had no idea what to expect from this Hoshidan princess. He was fairly certain that the princess was about the same age as Lady Belinda's daughter, Camilla. So that would put her at about six or seven. Dismay formed a painful knot in his stomach at the thought of lashing a small child. But it was a necessary evil, because he couldn't let Garon think that he was anything other than the epitome of the perfect, loyal knight. He had worked too hard, sacrificed too much to throw it all away now. One day, that dastard would lower his guard. He just had to wait until then. 

Desperate to take his mind off the unpleasant task awaiting him, he allowed his gaze to wander over the mountainous landscape. The setting sun had cast a fierce orange glow over everything, making it look as if the peaks were ablaze. Many people in the Nohrian army, especially those hailing from the southern regions or underground capital, found the desolate landscape surrounding the castle to be depressing, but it was quite the comforting sight to Gunther. The gnarled trees and often stormy skies reminded him of his old village, a small territory near the Infinite Chasm, bleak and all but barren. How he had hated the place when he was younger, often dreaming of running away to the city. Now, all he wanted was to go back home.

The fortress itself, much like the castle proper, had been built into a deep crater, the only way in or out being a narrow bridge that was currently being guarded by two sentries. Of course, the very terrain seemed to make additional precautions superfluous. The mountains surrounding the citadel were steep and prone to rock slides. There was nothing but inhospitable wilderness for miles around, and the weather was notorious for changing without a moment's notice. Anyone who managed to escape would undoubtedly die of exposure before reaching civilization. 

Not that it mattered, of course. As far as Gunther knew, all of the other hostages had been executed, with only the princess remaining. The sentries nodded at him as he approached, looking around and trying to suppress the shiver of apprehension that ran up his spine. 

    “Is there anything you need, sir?” One of the guards asked him, respectful and dutifully. 'For you to come back to the castle and teach those milksops how to address their superiors....' He resisted the urge to voice his thoughts aloud.

    “His Majesty has ordered me here to deal with the Hoshidan girl.” The other guard scoffed and muttered under his breath. 

    “Good luck.” Gunther turned a deathly glare towards the man. 

    “What was that, grunt?” The sentry trembled under the piercing stare being directed at him, trying to stammer out a respectful answer.

    “I-I-I'm sorry, s-sir. It's just, w-well, no one else has gotten her to obey yet, and not for lack of trying. She's a nasty little piece of work, and I just...”

    “You just what?”

    “N-nothing, sir! I'm sure you'll have every success.”

    “You're damned right I will...” Gunther muttered as he dismounted, handing the reins to the guard that wasn't a smart aleck. “Water my steed.” Redoubling his grip on the coiled leather, he mentally steeled himself for a moment before heading inside the fortress.

At a glance it was easy to see that, despite the bleak interior, this structure had not been designed as a prison. There were faded tapestries on the walls depicting, not glorious war scenes as were in the castle, but kinder aspects of Nohr's ancient history. The various gifts that dragonkind had given man, knowledge and strength and fortitude. It was those virtues that, above all, were held in high regard in Nohr. Although there was a caste system in place, unlike the rigid rules in the east that dictated that only those born in the higher castes may rise, it was long established that anyone with ability in Nohr could have an opportunity to better themselves. 

Just from looking at the soldiers and maids milling about, it was plain that they were all commoners, and although they did not have much by way of rank, if they could prove themselves on the battlefield, they would make a name for themselves and earn honors for it. But judging by the way they lounged around, starting when they noticed his gaze and, only then, making a show of working, it was clear they had no desire to improve their social standings. Quite frankly, Gunther didn't care. If they didn't want to work, that wasn't his problem. He wasn't going to report them. He was only there to do his own duty and leave as quickly as possible. He approached another soldier, who had suddenly become absorbed in oiling his breastplate.

    “You there. Stop pretending that you're busy.” The young man flinched at being called out, and slowly put his armor down.

    “Sir? Was there something you needed.”

    “I'm to deal with the Hoshidan. Where is she?”

    “She's... in the dungeons.” For what seemed like a full minute, Gunther stood there, waiting for the guard to make some move, but the younger man remained where he was, squirming under his increasingly withering gaze. 

    “I'm sorry,” he began, his voice dripping with wry disdain, “I didn't realize you had so many pressing matters to attend to that I have to search every single cell before I find the one I'm looking for. Take. Me. There.” The soldier flinched and nodded sharply.

    “Of course sir, right away sir!” As he turned, quickly walking towards the directions of the door leading down to the cellar, Gunther could not help but roll his eyes heavenward. The incompetence he was forced to deal with...

The dungeons, settled deep in the belly of the citadel, had once been used to store food, but had been converted gods only knew how long ago into individual cells sealed off with heavy doors. The chill in the air seemed to intensify the further they walked, and it wasn't long until their breath was visible in the low light of the wall mounted torches. Moisture condensed on the walls, trickling down and forming dirty puddles at their feet where large, ragged rats occasionally darted past. The smell of mildew and stagnating water turned his stomach. 

    “Are we almost there?”

    “Just about, sir. The Hoshidan's cell is at the end of this corridor.” Gunther shook his head in exasperation. The corridor seemed to go on forever.

    “Is all this really necessary for one little girl? King Garon surely can't be afraid that she's going to escape?”

    “No, but he's probably scared those byak heathens will send one of their ninjas out here to get her and wanted to make it as hard as possible for them. I hear those sneaky yellow bastards can walk through walls.” He noticed the whip, almost forgotten, in Gunther's hand and nodded at it. “You're gonna use that on her?”

    “Those are my orders.” The soldier grinned widely.

    “Good. It's all that nasty little bitch deserves. I went in there one time to check that she wasn't dead, and the little whore bit me on the leg. I thought it was gonna get infected.” The older knight tsk'd as he brushed past his guide.

    “Taken down by a child in a cell. I weep for Nohr's finest...”

As he continued making his way to the end of the corridor and heard the footsteps behind him receding, Gunther raised the whip to the flickering torch light to take a better look at it. It was hard to see at first, but there were small metal barbs woven into the leather, the same kind of metal used in wyrmslayers. They were meant to break through the tough hide of dragons and draw blood. He wondered what they would do to a small child. Even a reserved lash from something like this could easily flay skin, break bones... 

An image, a vivid recollection, popped into his mind, of a sticky red soup that had once been a small child, pulpy with sinew and brain matter and flecked with slivers of tiny white bones... Twenty years later and he could still see the blood boiling and congealing from the heat of the burning house...

Shaking his head violently to clear it, Gunther let the whip drop to the filthy stone floor as he pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the grisly scenes in his mind to go away. After all these decades, the memories came with less regularity, but they still bubbled to the surface on occasion, making him falter in his orders, giving Garon reason to doubt him. He needed, now more than ever, to forget everything about himself and give himself over completely to his duties. One day, all of his patience and suffering would be rewarded and he would finally have peace, but until that day came, nothing else mattered. 

If he had to kill innocents, then so be it. 

If he had to hurt children... then so be it. 

Stooping, he picked up the now damp whip and took the final steps remaining until the end of the corridor. The latch was closed, but there was no lock on the heavy door. The maids must have thought it too much work to constantly look for the proper keys and forwent the process of locking it entirely. He had to put quite a lot of weight behind the door just to get it to budge, scraping loudly against the floor, its hinges squealing in protest under the weight.

As he slipped inside, he reminded himself again and again that what he was doing wasn't important and that it wouldn't bother him. It was just some byak whore's whelp; what did he care?

[destieltaggedfic]

Fake Relationship - Part 7

For Richer or Poorer, or Maybe Just as Monster Bait – diamorem   Ao3

Set S9 AU.  A monster is hunting couples in a neighbourhood, the solution is to send Dean and Cas in to find out what's going on.  However, things have been strained between them since the fall of the angels.  That doesn’t stop them from trying to out gay each other in front of the locals. Deleted – link is the wayback machine

Word Count: 18k                              No Sex

Small Everyday Deeds – Featherthief   Ao3

Set S13 AU.  3 years ago baby Jack was born and in the action of the day, Cas was left human and Dean had a shattered leg that never recovered.  Now they are living in a small town where everyone believes they are married and Sam has finally come to visit.  But there seems to be something different about them and he’s determined to find out what it is.  But it wasn’t easy for Dean to get where he is today.

Word Count: 297k                            Non-Graphic Sex

All's Fair in Love and Hunting - caelum_writes   Ao3

Nonspecific timeframe.  Cas bets Dean he can’t make it 2 weeks of them pretending to be in a relationship because he’d be too uncomfortable with people thinking he’s gay. 

Word Count: 20k                              Graphic Sexual Acts

Holidate – Kitmistry   Ao3

AU.  Strangers Dean and Cas meet in a bar on Christmas Eve having disappointed their families with not being in relationships.  They agree to be each other’s fake date for future holidays and along the way they get to know each other.  Loosely based on the Netflix film The Holidate

Word Count: 35k                              No Sex

The Serpent and The Sphere – endvverse   Ao3

Nonspecific timeframe.  For case that is killing one person out a happy couple, Dean and Cas have to pretend to be together in the one location all the victims had been, a bar.  Its not going to be easy to pretend to be together when Dean is trying not to want it for real.

Word Count: 7k                                 Graphic Sexual Acts

[indigosabyss]

Writeathon Roundup Week 4

The second-last week! I was planning on working through my backlog of personal projects from here, but I recently got contacted by a bunch of different people asking for comms <33333 so I changed tracks to focus on those instead.

Luckily, I finished up Being Polite Is A Crime Now? and The 37 Century Conspiracy before the rush of orders, so they're complete.

Here's the overall summary:

Words Written: 19,614 Total Words of Fanfic: 930,209

Next week will be the last week of daily streams, after which I will do a biweekly schedule (with one day committed to crossovers and the other to standalones) so come by on Twitch if you want!

Start Time for 8 to 14 July: 12 PM GMT+5 (2 AM EST or 12 AM PST)

as always, under the cut are the fics I worked on this week.

Commissions | Patreon | Ko-fi

Commissions:

Playing A Mean Game [T, 18k+]

Three months ago, Monica Rambeau sealed up the Incursion, with her on the other side. Tired of waiting, Kamala gathered up the Quantum Bands and brute forced her way through the Noor to get to her side. Except she gets deposited in a world that's almost exactly like the sixties of her own world. With the addition of a group of people she definitely would have remembered. Erik was just trying to stop Schmidt from getting his hands on another kid like him. He didn't take into account that he would have to keep an eye on her after that.

It's Not An Odyssey If You Don't Know Where You're Going [T, 5k+]

From a very young age, Stede Bonnet had displayed rather uncanny abilities. It started with the relentless harassment he had faced from his peers, whose rough shoves resulted in many skinned knees and purpling bruises. All of which disappeared in less than minutes. Of course, as a child, it never occurred to him that this was unusual. The glowing was more of a concern. On the oceans, he was free of judgement for his proclivities. But there was still plenty to be feared about the ichor that ran through his veins. So he kept quiet. Until he met another like him. Blackbeard, Edward Teach, and - few people knew this - son of Charybdis. Yes, like the sea monster.

Untitled Marvel Comm

not giving much details about this project. just know i've written 3k for it at this point.

Untitled Percy Jackson v Triton Comm

more info will be given upon its release, like the one above.

Funny I Should Meet You Here [N/A, 5k+]

Ryuusui met Senku when they were kids in elementary school. But after Ryuusui changed schools, they grew apart, their paths never to cross again. Until the Petrification Wave came, and thirty seven hundred years passed. Leading to Senku arriving at the land where the Nanami Academy used to stand. Two friends reunite. And buried feelings bloom into something new.

Personal Projects:

Being Polite Is A Crime Now? [T, 8k+]

There were plenty of peculiar children who passed through the halls of the Konohan Orphanage. Minato had often been told that he was one such peculiar child, with his prodigious talent and excessive shyness. Even if he was, Minato was certain there was no one stranger than the kid a few years younger than him. Incredibly adept at melting into the background, good with knives in every way that didn't involve killing, and stubbornly set on manners and propriety that could not have been taught to them, Suz- Francois was always different. No one could have predicted how different, until they deserted. And left havoc in their wake, just for doing that job.

"I Will Always..." [G, 8.5k]

Byakuya hadn't exactly planned on becoming a father. He felt more like he owed it to the memory of his friend to take Senku in. But Senku was an incredible kid. Clever and enthusiastic and resourceful and yet still needing a guiding hand to stop him from doing things that would probably end with him getting killed. And between stargazing and bleach, microscopes and marker ink, model rocket launches and actual astronaut training, Byakuya really started to believe that he could do this. Then the green light. Of course he was out of harm's way, safe in the ISS. But Senku- Well, there was always hope. He would always hope.

[casual-fishlord]

FINALLY FINISHED IT!!

full redesign of my old ocs from a story that i made when i was 12

it was called the Uriors(universe+warriors)(keeping the name, definitely gonna spell it definitely xD)

sooo the original plot was basically this: a normal 14 yo girl becomes the leader of a magical girl team, where all the other members are cosmic deities.

i spent a lot of time on this story for a few years, but than abandoned it cuz i just couldnt make it work. i wanted to make it sort of a chill slice of life with a monster of the week type story, but it just didnt work cuz all the main characters could oneshot any threat and didnt have any reason to spend free time with a mortal.

ive been thinking a lot about this story lately, and i kinda realized just how much potential it has for psychological, cosmic, and body horror. and i think i can make the characters work now xD so i started rewriting it

plot synopsis so far:

mc finds a magical amulet and gets hired into the magical girl company called Yuriors. the company runs on merch sales and donations, so the members have to stay popular&relevant (thats why they look like cute girls). they fight monsters and help with politics on smaller planets. they cant just oneshot the monsters cuz its not entertaining for the public. the company is unethical, and half of the members are downright evil. the story is mostly just about them becoming friends and committing atrocities together. and about wars between space gods.

heres a lil info on the characters:

name: Mia Cat (she/her), age:14, sweet, kind, about to be traumatized

name: Bisqa (she/her) age:???, allegedly lost all her memories 11 years ago. has very high expectations put on her

name: Pearlescence the Devourer (they/them) age: about 18k, comes to company meetings higher than the stars

name: Onguh (she/it), age: about 13k, loudest and most annoying of the group, but is actually the weakest cuz she cant use magic. generally annoying to most people

name: Sex Buttouski (he/she), age: 536, chose this name as a form of rebellion

name: Varbara (she/they), age: about 23k, acts like the mother of the group, does tell much about herself

really proud of how these turned out. i might still tweak the designs a bit, and i definitely need to work on the characters a lot more. except to see more art of these bitchez

[eurydicees]

YOU WROTE 18K BY HAND?? i am so impressed i need to ask what you are writing about. holy shit u are like a god

oh my god ok THANK YOU for asking !!! also in the time since you asked this, i have written another 1,400 words by hand. Anyways. under the cut bc this got. too long.

so this was originally for the 50k big bang project, but it was cancelled so i'm gonna go ahead and talk about it publicly now. SO.

the sparknotes summary: it is an iwaoi post-canon coming of age relationship study !! it's about iwaizumi in california and oikawa in argentina and how they navigate their friendship while long distance. it quite literally walks through every step of their journey from graduation aoba johsai to meeting again at the 2020 olympics....the sheer amount of time i'm covering is why its currently ~88,000 words LMAO.

this fic is literally my little monster. it was supposed to be 30k. then it was supposed to be 50k MAX. it is now 88 thousand words long. anyways though i'm enjoying it.

it's a slow burn get together, but it's also a break up & make up fic. the idea is that they dated in high school and then had to break up bc of the distance--but i think they're probably going to get together in the end. the middle is a whole lot of them growing up and figuring out how they can have a healthy friendship even as adults and dealing with loneliness and adulthood on their own and really coming into themselves as people by the time that they get to the olympics.

i just finished parts two and three, which is iwaizumi's years at university. here are some BANGER lines, if i do say so myself:

after oikawa's visit to california, when he has to leave again:

Oikawa smiles at him, and with that, he takes the handle of his suitcase and walks into the airport. Farther and farther and farther away, until he’s disappeared from sight and Iwaizumi is standing alone again, next to the blinking red hazard lights and the sound of other cars’ wheels on cracked concrete.  He gets back into the car. He doesn’t really want to talk to Rich right now, or any one of his other friends or teammates. He kind of just wants to be alone.  So he turns off the hazard lights and puts the car in drive and then he takes the long way home.

when iwaizumi is talking to his friends about oikawa:

“It’s not a big deal,” he tries. “We’ve both moved on. It wouldn’t have lasted while we’re in different countries anyway.”  He does not mention that Oikawa had asked him to wait. He does not mention that he is—he is waiting, and he doesn’t plan on stopping. He doesn’t plan on breaking that promise to come home.  “Ah,” Em says, subdued.

during a drunken NYE call:

Iwaizumi can hear the flinch in Oikawa’s voice. “You miss me?”  “I’m not saying it again,” Iwaizumi says, and it sounds like it’s supposed to be angry, but it just comes out tired and sad. “Of fucking course I do. You’re—” “I’m what?”  Iwaizumi takes a shuddering breath. “You’re so far away, Tooru. You’re so far away and it makes me—fuck, fuck! I shouldn’t have called. I should—” “No!” Oikawa says it instantly, desperately, cutting off any idea that Iwaizumi should go. Which is good because as much as Iwaizumi wants to escape the embarrassment of this phone call, he doesn’t actually want to hang up. He doesn’t actually want to leave Oikawa now. “Stay. Please. Stay with me.”  Iwaizumi pauses for a moment, swallowing down Oikawa’s words and turning them over in his head before saying anything else. “Okay. I’ll stay.” 

anywayssssssss!!! it's been REALLY fun to write, but it's also like. an insane labor of love. this fic was my project for nanowrimo july of LAST YEAR, and it's my project again this year. isn't that crazy. so so so much has gone into this fic its literally driving me up the wall. it haunts my every waking moment and also my dreams.

but yeah i don't have wifi where i'm living for the summer, so i've been writing everything by hand and then typing it all up when i can use a hotspot on my phone. i also have the most amount of free time in my life than i have , like, EVER had in my non-child life. so i get to spend so much time writing, which has been sooooo fun. i am begging the universe to keep me from being burnt out bc i'm genuinely having the time of my life working on this.

ok phone's about to die gotta go. thank you for asking i want to talk about this SO bad. please feel free to ask me. please enable me i'm begging you

[neko-naruto]

I can take care of myself [don't let go]

Summary: Underfell is erased, mercilessly, and ruthlessly, Ink only manages to save Fell himself in the chaos of it all, until further notice he's placed under the care of the Dancetale monsters.

It's quite nice really, no one hates him, and he doesn't have much reason to hate anyone either.

Only problem is when he realizes he doesn't know how to dance.

Warnings: Brief discussion of depression, medication, some self deprecation, its mostly a fluff fic

Authors Note: So I'm sitting there going 'fuck' because Fell/Dance isn't a thing, and then I pull up a draft and start writing to fix that minor inconvenience, and here we are now, 18K words later and hoping someone else enjoys the notion enough to reblog it, and for those that prefer Ao3, the link

"Fell," Ink began cautiously as the monster in question tried to get a hold of his senses, having been dropped rather roughly into the antivoid.

"Yeah, asshole?" Fells snapped back, disorientation and confusion made his soul pound in his chest like hell.

"Error has just destroyed your AU, he specifically requested I save you as you're an honorary member of the Bad Sanses," Ink said, as soon as he was finished Fells pupils slitted themselves into slivers of crimson as he gripped the hollow casing of Inks soul.

"He did fucking what?" Fell snarled out as he gripped Inks soul a little bit tighter, the guardian winced, "no, more importantly ya didn't try and stop him?" The anger that resided under Fells confusion came across clearly.

"It was either I risk Underfell getting reset with irreparable damage, or save you and your memories," Ink explained, Fell halted his actions entirely, "I'm sorry, I couldn't save anyone elses physical form."

"Fuck, they didn't deserve to get erased, I hated the bastards but this? This is one step too," Fell said, he knew that if Ink did his job properly he could've spared a couple of souls in the carnage, but given Fells pristine condition, the chances are unlikely, "you go find Error and punch him for me, understood?" Ink nodded, he had more to say, his pupils shifted shape and color once again, this time to musical notes.

"I'll ask Nightmare, to do that for you," Ink said, he walked over to Fell who upon closer inspection was shaking a bit, even as his pupils rounded out to the usual shape and size, "I have a few AUs in mind you could live in until I figure out how to restore yours, and all the others we've lost."

"Which ones, and I swear ta fuck if you put me in Underlust again," Fell said, he didn't so much as despise Underlust, he was a semi-frequent visitor, he just, he couldn't handle staying there for more than a week; Ink shook his head, cracking a small smile.

"No, definitely not, you might get jacked up on the lust trait yourself if it gets reset, and I already have multiple Lustfell timelines to deal with," Ink explained, Fells shaking eased up an impossible amount, "I was thinking we send you to Underswap, Dancetale, Dancefell, Birdtale, or you could just bunk with the Bad Sanses."

Fell stayed silent for a moment, he would end up getting himself erased if he had to bunk with Error, "tell me about Dancefell," his tone had a slight quaver to it and was spoken on an exhale.

"It's a Dancetale timeline wherein a reset went awry and caused everyone to act more like they do in your AU, it's just Dancetale except Felled," Ink explained, Fell nodded along, there would be two of him (every AU he visited there was), and if it got Felled, that would also mean another Boss, and if standards are the same, he would be dusted in no time, "their Sans is often called Vermilion during multiverse meet ups."

"Right, and I would be cast out in Birdtale for not having wings, nobody wants me in Underswap," Fell said, counting up reasons of why he wouldn't be welcome in each AU, some he vocalized, others he didn't, Dancetale by far had the least, it was just Undertale but everyone could dance, to his knowledge at least, "I think I'll head on over ta Dancetale."

"I see, their Sans goes by Dance but you already know that," Ink said, holding out a hand for Fell to grip, the black and red counterpart took hold gingerly.

The world started to flip and fade out before they were locked in an abyss of darkness, he could feel the liquid slipping between his joints and hated it. He wanted to retract his hand from Inks grasp desperately, but was far too aware of the consequences that would await if he did so- who knows what AU he would wind up in, or if he would just be lost here forever. If anything his grasp tightens, using his other hand to grasp further up Inks arm for support, his eyes are closed shut and he doesn't notices the way the guardians expression simply lights up.

And as soon as it starts, its over and they're in Snowdin, there is no crunch when they splash up from the snow and Fell can barely gauge when its safe to let go and move until he opens his eyes. He's rather swift to jump away from Ink a little bit, kicking the snow with one foot, the entire place is empty, but he can hear the sound of music muffled by the walls of Grillbys bar. He's tempted to head on over, to investigate, he refrains from taking another step when the door swings open and a skeleton in blue walks out, that would be Dance.

He's laughing a bit and dismissing a conversation, his face is has a splash of blue on it, a deeper tone than most of the Sans counterparts, but there are still cyan highlights peppered amongst the navy tone. He goes to head back to his house, but he's quick to pivot on his heels instead and make his way over to Fell and Ink, he's heaving breathes despite not needing to. Once he makes it over to them he's grinning, drunk on adrenaline or alcohol, he still takes a pause before speaking.

"I'm taking a wild guess that you'd be the guy Ink wants me to take care of for the time being?" Dance asked, the way he phrased it made Fell want to tear his sternum open, take care of? He could take care of himself in Dancetale of all places, probably, he knows how to dance, to an extent.

"Yeah, that would be me, Dance," Fell spits the name with a bitterness to it that only makes Dance grin a little bit more.

"No need to be so bitter, I assure you, everyone here is fine having another Sans," Dance said, he put out a hand to shake, he wore fingerless gloves, Fell didn't reciprocate the motion.

"Fell, Dance," Ink said, gesturing between the two, "Dance, Fell," he gestured between them again, "I trust that you'll be in good hands Fell, don't worry about calling me up if you need to," Ink said, his pupils shifted to stars.

"I changed my mind, take me to Dancefell," Fell said, Ink shook his head.

"No can do, you're gonna be stuck here, if you're lucky a reset could go wrong and it might turn into a Dancefell timeline, but otherwise, you'll be living with Dance and his Papyrus," Ink said, Fell groaned a little bit, Dance only grinned, the blue on his face fading as the adrenaline wore off, he gripped Fells hand before the red counterpart could recoil, the strength in his grip was overpowering.

"You're stuck with me now fool, c'mon, Papyrus is dancing," Dance said, his tone was starting to come down from energetic to one much more lax as he dragged along Fell who begrudgingly followed.

Things would be better literally anywhere else, he wouldn't mind getting put in his place by a Papyrus again if it meant being anywhere other than this freak. A Sans that enjoys exercise? Unheard of in pretty much anywhere other than the Dance-verses, actually, that's a lie, everyone in Farmtale does their fair share of work to keep things in order. Fell still doesn't want to be here, even when he hears the music change to one that would be more fitting for a salsa instead of whatever style Dance uses, okay, maybe he's a little bit curious.

Dance releases his wrist when they arrive at the door and he pushes it open for Fell to enter, the red counterpart does so hesitantly, its so loud inside. Dance follows him in and leads him to an empty booth, Fell lets his gaze follow Dances, finding Papyrus on the floor, serving absolute cunt- he could hear when his heels hit the floor. It was definitely something that Fell hadn't expected to see, he instantly averted his gaze to the table, he never thought he would see any Papyrus doing such a dance. It made his soul ache in a way he couldn't explain, he'd only read of such dances, never seen it, it would be nice to dance like that. With anyone other than a Papyrus, obviously, they're still pseudo-brothers even if from different AUs, he could imagine doing such a dance with a Sans; not like any of them would know it though.

He was quick to try and find a way to distract because he didn't want to see it anymore.

"So, you can dance?" Fell asked, looking at Dance instead of the Payrus currently on the floor, it didn't catch the blue counterparts attention enough to drag his gaze back.

"Sure can," Dance said, he had to talk loud, the entire bar was noisy, he turned back to Fell.

"What's so special about it?" Fell asked, provoke an argument, a conflict even, anything to get his mind off of the noise and the sights.

"Got good reflexes, timing is on point," Dance continued to rattle off reasons, but most of them flew over Fells skull, "got good stamina-"

"And?" He said, interrupting Dances list, he got a lazy glare before something came out that caught his attention.

"And I am extremely flexible," Dance said, his tone was icy and it drew a bit of a reaction from Fell who paused before choking out a response.

"How flexible?" Fell said, his tone was a little bit strained, he was being talked into a corner, and the crimson rising to his skull was enough proof of that, it made Dance grin.

Dance leaned in a bit, resting his skull in gloved hands, "wanna find out?" His tone is far too sensual for Dance to even know how to achieve, Fell can't resist the small nod, he freezes up entirely when Dance stands up and offers a hand.

Fell doesn't even question taking it, more afraid of getting in trouble if he doesn't than interested in learning if he does. He's led out of the bar right as Papyrus finishes his performance, his collar feels far too tight around his neck. Dance leads him into the snow, its already been mostly compacted for the time being, he releases Fells hand and turns to face him.

He takes a few steps back before dropping into a few leg stretches, then he goes from a standing position directly into the splits, it shocks Fell because Dance doesn't wince. There's a spin and for a few seconds he's propped mostly on one hand, the momentum of his movement carries him into the next motion. It feels a little bit surreal for Fell, to see it all disjointed, slower than normal, but then again Dance is just demonstrating, not performing. The demonstration lasts only for a few minutes, Dance listing off the names of moves, and giving vague instruction on how hes achieving it as he does so.

Dance brings himself back into a standing position, "and that is how flexible I am," Fell can't tell he was acting like such in the bar just to fuck with him or this was part of a long con, the red on his skull still refused to die down despite how innocent that was.

"That's not exactly what I had in mind, but thanks for giving a demo anyways," Fell said, he rolled his eyes as he did so, Dances smile returns twofold.

The door to the bar opens and Papyrus walks out, Dance waves him over a bit and his pace picks up a little bit. Fell tries to repress the tense because this is a nice Papyrus, this isn't his Papyrus, this Papyrus wasn't prone to violence, no one in this AU was. They were only prone to the salacious temptations of rhythm and the dance floor, Fell still didn't understand what was so addicting to them in the simple movements. When Papyrus makes his way over the sprinkle of orange on his face is clear, he's still serving cunt in his outfit, but he was no doubt working his ass off dancing inside.

He heaves a breath, he doesn't have too, before speaking, "Sans, other Sans," Papyrus offers a hand to Fell as he speaks, "terribly sorry I can't remember your alias," the formality shocks Fell but he cautiously takes the tallers hand in a shake.

"It's Fell, or Red, whateva floats ya boat," Fell said, the way he guarded his tone, his sentence form, hell, even the way he held himself came across as afraid- Papyrus was kind enough not to mention it.

"Well then Fell, what would you like to do?" Payyrus asked, the question caught Fell off guard, he didn't know.

He shrugged his shoulders, Dance answered for him.

"We could go set up the couch for him, he'll be staying with us for a while," Dance offered, Papyrus gave a nod.

"Of course! Follow me, although, I suppose you would already know the way if your world is anything like ours," Papyrus said, his optimism was still held the same, but overall excitement dulled itself down, Fell played into it, trying to make a good impression.

"Heh, who knows how similar our AUs are," Fell shrugged his shoulders a bit, watching his pseudo-brothers excitement rise again as he led the two over.

Snow crunches underneath their shoes and no one talks, normally a silence like this would make Fell feel uneasy due to his previous living conditions, but here? He feels a little bit safer here with the knowledge that Error most likely won't touch this AU if he's here, or maybe this AU is next on the chopping block- he pushes the worries aside so he doesn't feel ill. This is his little safe haven until Ink figures out how to restore his AU, if even possible, he's been trying to do so for eons at this point and fails each time.

It'll be fine.

If Ink fails that is.

Everyone Fell has met in this AU has been nice to him so far, so what if he gets integrated during a reset and forgets, he'll survive, he'll thrive.

Dance placed a hand on Fells shoulder and the latter is pulled back to reality, they're at the door, "hey dude, you good?" The question comes across as sickeningly sincere and Fell gives a nod.

"Just thinking, s'all good," Fell answered with as Papyrus opened up the door and let them in with a bit of flare, Fell migrated to the couch instantly.

Dance sauntered over, he was a bit amused at how easily Fell acclimated to the couch, considering it had been voted most uncomfortable in recent polls. It really was interesting to Dance how Fell acted in this AU, they had met briefly once or twice before during multiverse meetups, and he acted very different there. Still, watching him prop his legs over the arm rest and curl into the back cushions definitely felt like it belonged. Dance dropped down beside him, only a few inches between hip and skull, Fell jumped a bit and Dance gave a small laugh before leaning over until there was mere centimeters between them, he was still smiling.

"So, like the couch?" Dance asked, Fell gave a bit of a nod, trying to shimmy away from the close proximity they were currently stuck in, Dance leaned back, "she's certainly a winner," how relaxed he sounded was off putting, he knew that Dance would be acclimated to some forms of physical closeness due to the nature of the AU, but jeez, that felt like a bit much.

"Shall I get you a pillow?" Papyrus asked, leaning over from the kitchen.

"Sure thing, Boss," Fell said, the title came out reflexively and he was quick to cover his mouth, he did not need to make that a thing for Dance to deal with, the blue counterpart quirked a brow and Fell scrambled for an answer, "habit."

"I'll be back in a second then," Papyrus said, his smile didn't seem to fade as he disappeared back into the kitchen leaving the two counterparts to their own devices, Fells face was peppered in red.

He simply lay with his skull in his hands, he eventually sat up heaving a sigh, he stared at the shoes on his feet instead of meeting Dances gaze. He didn't have the energy to explain anything inside his head now or ever, nor does he want to do so, Dance still places a hand on his shoulder. The question that Fell was dreading to hear doesn't come, instead he's greeted with something mundane.

"You don't have to sleep on the couch tonight, you can use my room for a bit instead," Dance offered, the concern in his voice is visceral, once again, throwing a curve ball at Fell.

Fell shakes his skull, "I'll take the couch," he looks up again, "I won't call him Boss again if that's what you're worried about."

"It'd be nice if you didn't," Dance said, "I got some ketchup if it'll help you settle into your new AU for who knows how long," Fell pauses before answering, watching as Dance stands up.

"I like mustard," Fell admitted quietly, he watches Dances expression go from concern to a mix of confusion and almost disgust, he shrugs it off.

"Gotta go back to Grillbys than," Dance said nonchalantly.

"I'll take the ketchup," Fell said as he stood up, following Dance to the kitchen, Papyrus is gone.

"Cool, we got all sorts of variety," Dance said, opening up the fridge as he did so, he pulled out the plain kind, a spicy kind, a mixed kind, and a couple others, it overwhelmed Fell.

"I thought there was only one ketchup...?" Fell murmured quietly as he slowly reached for the spicy one, Dance grabbed the regular and put the rest back in.

"Nope, I been getting into mixology lately, all of these are my own brew," Dance explained before taking a sip of his own, he watched his red counterpart intensely so.

Fells hesitance was clear but he bit the bullet anyways, the spice coated the inside of his skull but it still tasted nice, he could almost ignore the fact it was ketchup. He paused before going back for seconds, Dance considered it to mean that he succeeded with the spicy blend unlike what Alphys had said with it being too hot and Undyne saying it wasn't hot enough.

Dance smirked a bit, "hows it taste?"

"Like ketchup," Fell answered with, "what do you expect?" His level of snark makes Dance grin, he has to hold back a snort.

"Good point, good point," Dance said, the front door opened and Papyrus walked in holding a pillow, "where'd you get that one bro?"

"Places with pillows," Papyrus answered matter of factly as he made his way to the couch, dropping down the pillow, and a blanket he grabbed as well.

"You sure about that? Cause I'd say we have plenty o' pillows right here Paps," Dance said, Papyrus leaned back a bit just to glare at him, Dance gave a shrug.

"Sans, please, stop it with the puns, we have a guest over," Papyrus said, practically begging that just this once his brother wouldn't be making a total ass of himself.

"He has a point Dance, you don't wanna test my joke tolerance, some even say I can become pun-friendly," Fell said, smirking all the while, it garnered a bout of laughter from Dance while Papyrus groaned, he shoved his way into the kitchen.

"Everybody out! I'm cooking!" Papyrus snapped, waiting for them to move.

"Looks like you're just standing there to me," Dance said, that time Fell gave a chortle before the two were pushed out of the room instead instead.

There's a pause of silence, once again, Fell somehow finds it comfortable to just be standing there and doing, or saying, anything- it's unnaturally comfy, but he likes it. He isn't used to it, but he distantly hopes he can become used to it.

Dance gives a bit of a hum before speaking, "wanna head on over to Waterfall," Fell shrugs his shoulders, "cool, I know a shortcut."

"Alright, lead the way," Fell said, grinning as he gave a faux bow in Dances direction, gesturing to the door as he did so, Dance put out a hand.

"You might wanna hold on," Dance said, there was a slight crack in his confidence, but Fell doesn't pull it apart when he takes Dances hand before being led through the door.

It's dark again, but he anchors himself to reality with Dances hand, he follows his steps despite not being able to see in the ocean of navy blue tones, so close to black you can barely tell its blue. Everyones shortcut was different, this one felt a bit more alive than other ones Fell had been taken through, he couldn't pinpoint exactly why right away. Only once they were heading back to the light, where the navy became brighter did he realize it was because the shortcut was pulsing around them, thrumming in tune with them at that. It was neat, he barely caught due to how purposeful the beats were, in tune with his soul, or Dances, he would have to ask his counterpart how to do that.

Even when they had exited the door he didn't let go of Dances hand right away, didn't see a good reason to do so, it was nice, and Dance wasn't pulling away either. He only let go when Dance led him deeper into Waterfall, it was blue, every waterfall was blue, but the atmosphere of this Waterfall was different, it made sense. This one just had a pulse to it, each Echo flower had a rhythm and time to how fast and slow it repeated the message, like music.

"You have the lone bench in your AU, right?" Dance asked, Fell quirked a metaphorical brow at the question, "just follow me," Dance grabs Fells wrist this time and it causes the red counterpart to freeze up entirely, Dance lets go.

Dance leads the way again and Fell follows, its nice, listening to Dance rattle off little things about this AU that Underfell has, Fell chooses against bursting his bubble. That'd just be cruel, and he can't risk anyone hating him on a vitriolic level so early into the time he'll be spending here. He pauses when Dance crouches down and picks up a flower, it looks vaguely like a lotus, he grabs a second one and gestures for Fell to grab the other two; he does as silently instructed.

Dance places a flower in the water and pushes it across the still lake, it leaves ripples as it fades out of Fells view, "cool right?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper as he placed the second one down and pushed it over, "your turn."

Fell sits down on the mossy gravel beside Dance and pushes off a flower, this time he can see it when it stops moving, he adds the other and they all sprout up into a bridge, "I'll uh, I'll let you lead the way," Fell said, fumbling for an excuse, unskilled when it comes to walking across these flowers, more used to using shortcuts instead.

"It's easy," Dance said as he stepped on a flower, it didn't budge an inch under his weight, Fell followed his actions down to the wire, scared they would collapse if he stepped wrong, "don't worry so much," Dance offers both of his hands this time, facing Fell instead of the path ahead, "I won't let you fall in."

That does things to Fell, "I would hope so," he grasps both of Dances hands firmly, grip tight, he continues to follow Dances footsteps, staring at the ground below.

"Hey," Dances voice was soft as he slipped a hand from Fells grip and used it to tilt his skull up a bit, "just focus on me, not the water, might help your nerves," Fell does exactly that, watching Dance intently, following the gentle tug as he steps forward until they're on solid ground again.

Fell doesn't speak for a moment, face splashed in a deep crimson that matches his pupils, "thanks," Dance smiles a little bit, this time its sweet instead of smug or joking, Fell barely catches the difference because its so small, it makes his soul pound a little bit harder.

"Twas nothing my dearest damsel in distress," Dance said, adding on not nearly enough layers of dramatics to his spiel, Fell gives a bit of a grin as he takes a seat on the wooden bench, Dance drops down beside him, "wanna quiche?" The question catches Fell off guard, if he was eating something he would be choking right now.

"Fucking what?" Was all Fell managed to get out in his confused state.

Dance leans over and sits back up with a quiche in his hands, "a quiche, do you not have those in Underfell?"

"We have quiche in Underfell, Dance, of course we have quiche," Fell explained, he gestured a little bit, "I know how much teachers love ta say there's no such thing as a stupid question, but that was no doubt about it, a stupid question," Dance shrugged his shoulders as he tore it in half.

"I'll actually use my skull next time I even think about asking you a question," Dance proclaimed boldly, he took a bite of quiche before spitting it out, "don't eat it."

"Watch me," Fell said, he took a bite, chewed and swallowed, just to spite Dance, it tasted disgusting, clearly stale.

"If you get food poisoning, it's on you," Dance said, watching as Fell went back for seconds just to prove his point.

Fell choked down another bite before throwing the quiche into the still water, it made a small splash sound that a nearby echo flower reverberated, "I know," his voice came out a little bit dry, the quiche in itself absorbing what little moisture lay along his throat and digestive systems, if he even had any, he wasn't quite sure how it worked himself.

"Dude, as your host in this AU, I hereby ban you from doing dumb fucking things," Dance said, Fell snorted.

Fell sent a smirk in Dances direction, "I'd like to see you try."

Dance quirked a nonexistent brow, "I'm sure you'd love to get pinned to the floor by none other than moi," the retort catches Fell off guard, his skull heats up again, Dance either doesn't notice or chooses not to bring it up.

---

A few weeks have passed and Fell is realizing that he doesn't know how to blend in with the local monsters because he can't dance, can't count complex music, he can't even sing- he's screwed in in simpler terminology. He knows just enough to survive, he knows just enough to pass, and he knows that he can say he's from out of town but he prefers not to do so. He tries to pick it up, tries to follow Dances movements, but he can't quite get his joints to work miracles like Dance has managed to do so. He's been brought to Mettaton for tips, he couldn't catch on properly, he tried to learn Capoeira from Undyne, but it cut to close for comfort.

He's running out of legs to stand on in an attempt to get good, he can't learn anything that anyone can teach, and even this Undergrounds influence doesn't want to help him. He's heard stories about how every human that's fallen down has gained a style to dance by, its simply unfair that he can't figure it out- he's tried everything he can think of. He's getting tired of walking around and finding that everyone around him can do what he can't, even if he could just walk to the beat this universe sets he would be fine, but he can't.

Dance still treats him as an equal, but it's clear he doesn't like the fact that Fell doesn't know how to simply dance, in any style, 'he's like an uncle at a wedding' as Undyne helpfully put it. Fell still tries to compensate for the fact he can't, he picked up an electric bass he found in the garbage during a dumpster dive with Alphys (he's never doing it again (he's done it multiple times)). He's trying to learn it, picking up sheet music whenever he finds it, learning some chords and notes, the amp he has to use now isn't very good, but Dance seems to appreciate waking up to a horribly tuned rendition of Hot Cross Buns every other morning.

Here he sits on the couch, propped against a pillow, one leg crooked the other with his foot firmly on the floor as he holds his bass, today he's hesitant to play. He's trying a new song, a complex one, he's sure he'll lose count somewhere along the line, but he starts to strum despite that, he promised himself he'd learn at least one song for every monster in Dancetale. He's starting with a song for Papyrus, it's a bit slower compared to what he usually hears Payrus dancing to, but, it'll have to do until later. The sheet music rests beside his music and he presses down on the strings and starts to strum, he counts aloud instead of in his head.

It sounds good enough at first, the count is stable, the slip ups he makes are minimal, and it manages to draw Papyrus from upstairs, that starts to chip at Fells confidence and focus. Now he has an audience, an audience listening very intently and even trying to make something work alongside the basic chords he's producing. Mistakes start to slip in with how frequently he's looking up from the sheet music for validation of whether or not Papyrus seems to be enjoying himself- he is. The stress is causing his soul to thrash against his ribs when Dance makes his way down the stairs and joins in, he focuses on the sheet music for as long as possible until he looks up and simply stares.

He didn't know that their styles could blend, it looks like an awkward mix of the two extremely different styles of dance, but they make it work. Fell keeps strumming away until he's finishing the song, before that Dance does a small pirouette out the door just cause he can and Fell is enamored at how swiftly Papyrus' dance changes back to his original style. He looks a lot less winded than when he performs at Grillbys or on Mettatons show, or with Undyne, he looks thrilled instead.

"That was magnificent!" His voice is full of joy and Fell can swear he hears how rapidly his soul is beating in the silence of the room.

He takes a moment to form an answer, "thanks, I uh- it'll only get better with time," Fell gave a couple experimental strums as he spoke, he'll work on Mettatons song next, "soon enough I'll be playing for royalty."

"Absolutely! I'm sure the king would love to hear you perform," the excitement in his pseudo-brothers voice doesn't falter in the slightest, but it's said with such earnest it makes Fell feel a little bit warm and fuzzy inside.

There's a knock on the door and Fell pulls off his bass, saying he'll get it as he reshuffles his sheet music and places it all in a pile before making his way to the door. He pushes it open gently, his mood immediately drops when he sees that it's Ink. He doesn't know why his good mood decides to take a hike when he realizes that it's Ink whose standing expectantly at the door with starry eyes. He isn't even sure what he's supposed to say, this probably means he's getting moved before he could master even one song; he gave himself a job and he's going through with it for once.

"Hi Ink," his voice is a lot quieter coming out then he had planned, Ink lets himself in.

"I have great news!" Ink exclaimed, he sounded really excited and it dragged down Fell more than expected.

"Lay it on me," Fell said, concealing a sigh with what he saying.

Ink pauses before speaking, as though to steady himself with the excitement coursing through him, "well, Error has apologized for destroying your AU, and I've cobbled together a makeshift placeholder for Underfell that you can live in," Ink sounded happy, proud of himself even, but Fell didn't answer right away, "do you not want to go back?"

Fell pauses, leaning to the side a bit, forcing his hands in his pockets as he searched for the words he needed, "not yet at least, I told everyone down here I would learn how to play for 'em," he explained, Ink didn't respond right away, Fell filled the silence, "I made a promise, don't really wanna go back on it just yet," Ink gives a nod of understanding.

"Of course! That makes zero sense for you to do all things considered, but I'm still happy for you!" Ink said, his emotions were fake this time and he was putting it on way too thick for it to even mimic a semblance of real emotion, he wanted things to go his way and they weren't.

"Sorry to put your work to waste, kinda," Fell said, glancing to the side, his gaze rested on his bass, he had so much work to do, so much time he could buy with that instrument- this AU was better than any variant of his own and everyone knew it.

"No, no, it's perfectly fine," Ink turns to the door, he waves off both Fell and Papyrus who had migrated to the kitchen, "I'll check in again after a few months your time."

Fell didn't dignify Ink with a goodbye, he wouldn't do so unless the guardian did so first, he didn't. This was the first time in hundreds, if not thousands of resets that Fell has felt secure not only in his own body, but the AU itself, and safe with the monsters around him. Yet Ink still has the gall to try and take that security away so he can 'go home' even though this feels much more like home than Underfell ever did. It makes sense that Ink wouldn't get it, that won't stop him feeling sour about it.

He walks back over to the couch and grabs his bass, he starts playing, he doesn't quite know what it is he's playing, but he is certainly strumming out some tunes. It sounds angry, it sounds scared, it all sounds raw and unfinished, he isn't even sure what chords he's playing to some extent. When he's done with it he tosses it to the ground and storms out, dropping into the snow to try and cool down one way or another; he pulls his hood up.

He hears the door open and close, Dance sits down beside him, Fell doesn't even bother questioning, he knows he took a shortcut.

"So," Dance begins, dragging out the 'o' in his sentence, "Papyrus told me 'bout what Ink said, sorry for bailing on ya and not sticking around all day, had some 'dogs to sell, you know how it is," Fell gave a pause, Dance waited for an answer patiently.

"I sell chimichangas," Fell said, he almost sounded nervous as he watched Dances expression go from concern to confusion.

"Of course you don't sell hotdogs," Dance murmured to himself, barely loud enough for Fell to hear him say it, "whose song are you gonna do next?" The question is abrupt enough to catch fell off guard.

"Probably Metattons, get some more salvaged sheet music from Alphys, ya know?" Fell said, he wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Good luck with that, we only have a few pieces of sheet music for the stuff he likes listening too," Dance said, Fell gave a bit of a nod, that piqued Dances curiosity, "you feeling alright?"

Fell heaved a sigh, "is it wrong for me to want to stay here even though I can take care of myself and go back to Underfell?" His questioned sounded painful, and Dance took a moment to think before answering.

"Not really, I don't mind having you around, I don't think anyone wants you out," Dance said, he wrapped an arm around Fells shoulders, he let go on the tense he received in response to the action, "besides, it isn't like it's really your Underfell, it's just some shoddy replica," he added, "so long as no one wants you out we'll be holding onto you whether you like it or not!"

A grin returns to his face as he pulls off Fells hood, pulling him into a faux headlock, it catches the red counterpart off guard. He gives a prompt exclamation of annoyance but settles into the touch rather fast, gripping Dances forearm to prevent real harm. There's a bit of laughter shared between the two before Dance lets go of Fell.

"For real though, you're welcome in Dancetale whenever you please, you bring a certain... Pizazz to the place we don't really got," Dance explained, during the pause he gestured with his hands a bit, trying to articulate his point, Fell nodded.

"Alright, I hereby promise I'll drop in and give ya some lessons of 'pizazz' every now and then once I'm well on my way," Fell promised, Dance let go of him but he didn't move away from his blue counterpart instantly, "could ya try teaching me to dance again?"

"We both know how that'll end up, ask Papyrus instead, he'd be pleased as punch," Dance explained as he stood up, Fell followed suit, he was tempted to reach out and grab Dances hand but he refrained, "'sides, I got some apostrophe-apostrophe-dogs to sell," Fell quirked a metaphorical brow.

"Apostrophe-apostrophe-dogs?" He asked, Dance grinned as Fell had just opened up one of his favorite spiels.

"Yeah, apostrophe-apostrophe-dogs, short for apostrophe-dogs, which is naturally short for," Dance left it open, watching Fells expression shift as he put it together, "I know how much you love having me at your side, but the monsters of Hotlands can't get enough of me; go ask Papyrus for help."

"I guess I have no choice but to do exactly that," Fell said dramatically as he made his way to the front door of the house again, he heard Dances 'goodbye' and returned it as he propped open the door.

He was skittish, he still walked up to Papyrus who was currently cooking, he got the day off today. He's humming a tune and even doing a bit of a dance on spot, envy strikes Fell like lightning, he can't even do the bare minimum of that. He props himself until he's leaning on the counter, Papyrus still focuses more on the food than Fell being there until he speaks up.

"I need you to teach me how to tango," the question is demanding and it gives Papyrus a bit of a shock.

Papyrus gives a hum as though playing with the thought, "what for? Everyone loves you even though you can't dance,"

"Because I'm boring everyone, I can't speak the language that everyone else here can," Fell explained, he sounded agitated as he did so, he was hesitant to continue as Papyrus waited to hear more, "I think tango would be best to tell my emotions and all that," that piques the interest of his pseudo-brother.

"And who might this lucky monster be? Now I'm curious brother," Papyrus sounds beyond desperate to learn more, but he doesn't give Fell a chance to spill his soul, "no need to worry, I'll gladly teach you how to tango, with the promise you don't come crying to me if they misinterpret."

Fell doesn't understand that, how do you misinterpret a tango, "you can't really not understand what a tango conveys Paps," the explanation comes off as deadpan, "a tango is... Romantic, its sensual, plain as that," Papyrus quirks a brow.

"That may be how it works in your AU, but it works differently here, dances have no set meaning Fell," Papyrus explained as he took hold of Fells hands, leading him out to the living room and twirling him as he did so, he nearly lost balance entirely, "in your AU, where a motion like that could be romantic, well, it depends entirely on how the dancer feels, how much of their soul they're throwing into it."

"So, nothing can be taken at face value?" Fell asked, Papyrus nodded, Fell walked over to him, holding out his hands, "I still want you to teach me," he never thought he'd find himself saying those words so easily to any Papyrus.

Papyrus took his hands, "gladly, now, just mirror my movements," he took a step to the side with his left, Fell followed, trying to keep his head up, "you can look at your shoes if it helps," Fell did so instantly, he mumbled a 'thanks' before following each step.

He uh, he fucked it up, a lot, but it deterred him a lot less when he had Papyrus comparing his flaws to times others messed up even worse. He had a feeling Papyrus was lying to make him feel better, but it was working really well, he could ignore his screw ups easier if they weren't as bad as someone elses. He was taught the solo part, it was harder to learn that because instead of having someone to mirror he had to follow vocal instructions.

He made a lot more mistakes there, but Papyrus didn't point them out, or give comparisons, he let Fell think he was doing it properly, it would let something different bloom if he tried to tango with someone of a different style either way- if he tried to do so incorrectly? It would either end catastrophically, or beautifully, Papyrus was routing for something miraculous to happen by the end of it all, and he was almost certain of himself it would. Fell would no doubt get bold and try to show off to monsters like Undyne who would agree to a battle, and Fell would adapt, he's good at adapting.

When he finished the first practice, he felt good about himself, he waited for further instruction.

"Now," Papyrus began as he made his way back over to Fell, "let's do it again, but this time, keep your eyes on me, not the ground," Fell freezes up a bit, he isn't ready.

Fell paused before speaking, "you sure I can't have one more practice round?" Papyrus gave a nod in response.

"Entirely so," Papyrus held out his hands and Fell took them before beginning the dance.

He ended up stepping on his pseudo-brothers feet a lot, and the count he kept in his head of one to four wasn't doing much in terms of helping him keep time of when he was supposed to move. It gave him a sense of when to act, but Papyrus was moving swifter, and with actual, practiced skill behind his actions- not stumbling like a deer taking its first steps. When they split for the solo aspect, Fell lost his grip almost entirely, keeping his head up instinctively, afraid of consequences if he didn't. He didn't start to head back early enough, and he got multiple steps wrong as well, but he toughed it out until the end, the ending flourish almost caught him off guard but he still held the landing.

He was buzzing with excitement, he pulled it off (to an extent) for the entire dance, he could get used to this.

"I'm heading off to Undynes," was all he got out, he could feel adrenaline rushing through his marrow, but it wasn't fear fueled, it was just the good stuff.

Papyrus waves him off, "good luck," his voice is proud, and it makes Fell feel like he's bursting because he can't remember the last time any Papyrus was proud of him.

Fell pushes open the door and walks into his shortcut, it's completely empty as it always is, but it feels a bit less stiff, not to a very noticeable amount though. He can still feel it though, the ground has a bit of give under his weight instead of being stiff like wooden boards and the 'walls' of the void don't compress him till he feels like he's suffocating. He even pauses to look around finding that this time it has the faintest swirls of crimson here and there, the deepest of reds he can barely make out from the black, but it makes it feel alive, he feels alive just standing inside of it.

He steps out, he's smiling a bit, he ends up in Waterfall and he can water rushing almost instantly, and this time he can pick up the melodies of the Echo Flowers and their timing. He hums along to it as he makes his way from the Bird That Carries You Over A Disproportionately Small Gap to Undynes house, he can count it out, its four eighth notes in a bar. It's nice, it's easy, if he could freestyle some rhymes he totally would, he finds himself almost stepping with the rhythm.

He knocks on Undynes door, he can hear really loud, almost punky music through the walls- when she opened the door it gets louder. A towel is resting on her shoulders and she looks a bit winded, it takes her a second to look down and meets Fells gaze, half expecting Papyrus.

"Yo," she said, her tone is baritone, it'll never stop catching Fell off guard, she lifts a water bottle to her lips, "learn how to dance yet?"

"Fuck yeah I did!" Fells exclamation is full of life and Undyne grins in response, she grabs Fells hand and pulls him inside.

Everything is loud inside, Fell can almost feel the floor boards shaking under the music, "let's dance, punk."

Undyne starts to go at it almost immediately and Fell only has an instance to react, he drops down and goes to swing, but Undyne weaves out the way. She raises a hand and grabs his wrist, she twists it and Fell yelps before he tries to strafe and throw a kick, she dodges with ease and throws one that Fell tries to move around. He's suffering to keep in time with Undynes music, hers is fast, and loud, and heavy as fuck compared to music Papyrus dances to- her grin is sharky and she's spitting out a retort in no time.

"You call that dancing?! You're just throwing out punches and kicks! C'mon punk!" Undynes sharpness cuts deep and Fell tries to keep it up, "it takes two to tango don't it?!"

Fell takes a second to get out an answer in the midst of the dance he's been dragged into, "yeah!" He has to practically shout it.

"Then make me fucking tango!" It's a demand, anyone could tell that, and Fell tries to fall back into tango.

Key word being 'tries.'

He can't make Undyne tango, he really can't, all he can do is duck and repeat what Papyrus taught him when the moments open up, but slowly, Undyne starts to shift. She slows her pace, her motions become a bit more grounded as well, while Fells start to match her style a bit more as well. It's subtle, it's still clunky and clearly very different dances, but there's definitely blending going on between the two styles.

By the end of it all she's practically shoving him away only to drag him back with a hand, he gives a sweep kick and she glides away with grace. She throws jabs that match punches, but he slides along her arm until they're pressed flush against each other and he can spin her out only for her to flank him with ease. He's tempted to try and lift her but something tells him not to, instead she's holding him with her heel to his throat and he's managed to grasp her hand furthest away, leaning into it.

Undyne is smiling, grinning like she's won the lottery, she releases Fells hand and lowers he foot as he straightens himself up, Fell doesn't even realize it, but he's also grinning. She trots over to the counter as Fell drops onto the ground, she turns down the music before sitting down beside him handing over a bottle of water. He gives a prompt 'thanks' before guzzling it down, she does the same before playfully punching him in the shoulder.

"Dude! That was awesome!" Her voice is full of glee, "I haven't had that much fun dancin' since the last time Sans came over!" Fell feels his soul barely skip a beat at the notion of dancing with Dance, "we have to do that again."

"No shit suga' tits, that was great!" The nickname slips out and he didn't mean it but it draws a snort of laughter from Undyne, "never danced with someone 'n really meant it till now," Undynes laughter slows.

"Really?" The question is far too genuine for Fell to feel comfortable, but he nods, "that's gonna change real soon, especially when I show ya off to Alphys, you got skills punk!" Her vigor is back tenfold, "she uh, she could really use whatever it is you got going on, resilience, you've met her before though, you probably already noticed."

It cuts Fell deeply to hear that this Alphys needs resilience, he only gained his due to very severe circumstances, "I wouldn't mind dancin' with her if you think it'll help," Undynes expression softens before she drags him into a hug that squeezes his ribs together.

"Thank you," her voice is quiet, he's never heard it on any Undyne, period, she stands back up and holds out a hand before he can contemplate, "c'mon, her lab isn't to far away if you wanna head out right now," Fell gladly takes her hand.

"I'd love to," his smile is genuine and he follows her to the door before halting her, "I know a shortcut," she snorts back a laugh.

"Doesn't every one of ya know a shortcut?" Undye asked in response.

Fell rolled his eyes, "you wanna take a shortcut or not?" She gives a nod and cuts out her backtalk before they fall into the red void, ending up at Alphys' door swiftly.

Undyne barges in right away, although Fell is hesitant to do so, he follows without a second thought; this Undyne won't fuck him over first chance she gets, not many would dare. They end up finding Alphys hunched over at her desk, typing madly on some sort of project, she's so lost in her work she doesn't notice them until they're peering over her shoulders.

Fell speaks first, "classy, anime on work hours," she jumps so hard she almost slaps him in the face in shock, he leans back and laughs a little bit, "just teasing!"

Alphys gave a groan of embarrassment as she closed the tabs, she held her head in her hands, "did you bring him here Undyne?"

"What? Me? I'm hurt Alphys," Undyne said dramatically, teasing her girlfriend dutifully as she twirled her from her chair with ease.

Alphys isn't quite sure of how to respond, caught between teasing and truth, "I- sorry," she managed to get out, crushed like an insect in her confusion.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Undyne is quick to reassure, Fell feels envious of what they have, he knows that a lot of the Alphys and Undynes of the multiverse get together anyways, just seeing it up close makes him feel jealous, "and yes, I did bring him here," she gestures to Fell with gusto, he perks up a bit.

"Why?" Her question comes out quietly.

"So you can get some of his energy, might rub off on ya, he's got that resilience! Never gives up!" Undyne explained with much more explosiveness than needed, Alphys seems apprehensive, "you don't have to."

Alphys pauses, "I can! I'll totally dance with him if you want me to!" She sounds desperate for approval and Fell catches it, he hesitantly places a hand on her shoulder.

"I won't dance if you don't really want to," he puts as much faux caring into his voice as he can, but he's careful not to add too much, he tries to make sure a bit of genuine emotion is there, somewhere.

She gives a bit of a sigh, "thanks," she turns to Undyne, "sorry for letting you down," her gaze is swiftly averted to the floor and Undyne crouches down to meet it.

Fell makes a shoddy excuse to leave before the waterworks can begin and someone starts sobbing. His excuse involves stumbling for words and pressing his palms together as he makes his way to the door, they don't seem to mind.

Hotlands is colder in Dancetale than it is Underfell, not by much, but instead of making Fell feel uncomfortable it just makes him feel real, enough heat agitation so he feels like he's actually there. He walks along the ground, staying dead center in case his body decides to just quit on him, he'd rather wake up trampled then fall in magma. When he makes it to the elevator he half expects it not to work with how much time he's spent in Horrortale, but the doors slide open in welcoming and he walks in. He's raking his mind over the five buttons that lead somewhere else, which one would someone else he knew be closest too?

Elevator R2...?

Fell presses the button and hopes for the best, he hears the machine come to life, whirring and humming before he can feel it shaking in his bones. He knows he's felt it hundreds of times before, but it doesn't fail to make him feel disoriented despite that- he leans against a wall for support and closes his eyes. He waits until the door opens before he moves again, everything stops moving and making noise all at once and the doors come open smoothly. He almost stumbles, but he catches his misstep even though no one would catch him if he didn't, he makes his way to the left, the only place to go.

Relief washes over him when he sees Dance at his sentry station, yet another hotdog in hand, he has his feet propped on the counter, a bottle of ketchup is on it as well. He isn't quite sure he wants to walk over and interrupt whatever he's witnessing, this is what Dance is like in his natural environment, just like any other Sans, normal. It makes Fell yearn for a simpler time he never got due to the circumstances of his AU, but he wouldn't ever take that from someone if they had it, it would just be cruel. And yeah, he's been called cruel before, but taking away security from someone is beyond cruel even for him- he feels his chest start to constrict and red tinted tears start to pool up.

He chokes it back, he won't drag down Dance over some shit inside his head. He starts to walk over on over, calling the blue counterparts name, he perks up and grins. He doesn't quite move from his spot though, far too comfortable to do so, even for Fell, he tosses his hotdog behind him (it ends up in the magma). He looks really, really happy to see Fell, but he can't quite tell if its fake, he hopes it isn't, he can't find anything to start conversation with despite his days events.

"So, did you get Paps to teach you anything?" Dance asked, tossing the plastic bottle of ketchup between his hands as he speaks.

"Yeah, he taught me a thing or two 'bout tangoing," Fell explained, he opted to lean against the post of Dances sentry station, "how are the 'dog sales?"

Dance gives a small hum, "bad, want one? Free of charges because your a guest in my AU," Dance offered, his smirk was sly as he reached under the countertop of the station and pulled out a hotdog, it had mustard on it, not ketchup, real mustard of the yellow variety.

Fell wants it, desperately, he's not sure if he's allowed, "jeez, ya sure I can just, have it?" Dance nods and Fell grabs it, he takes a couple bites, contemplating the flavor and texture before answering, "it's acceptable, the best part is the mustard, where'd you get it anyways?" Dance pauses.

"Grillby happened to order one too many bottles and because I'm his best customer, I got the overflow," Dance lied, it was clear he was doing so with the faintest sprinkling of blue rising to his skull, Fell quirked a brow as he took another bite, Dance sighed, "I paid top dollar so it would feel more like home for you," Fell nearly chokes, he starts grasping for words.

"You didn't have to do that, this place already feels like home, better than home," Fell said, trying to reassure Dance whilst simultaneously shaming him for wasting money on a condiment, Fell could go without it, he didn't need to impede much further than physical space.

Dances switches how his legs are crossed, he glances to the side for a second and Fell barely catches the action, "what if I wanted to just cause I can?" Dances voice is a bit quieter than before, he sounds almost nervous, Fell realizes that the mustard is a gift, not just an accommodation, and he didn't receive it properly.

"I'd probably misinterpret what you're trying ta do, giving a gift to a fool like me," Fell said, he gestures a little bit with the half eaten hot dog, trying to fill airtime as though its getting his point across, "fuck, if you were to get me a bottle of mustard just cause, I would marry you on the spot."

"Then get out your ring," Dance answered without missing a beat, he catches Fells tense and the way red rose to his face, he almost gives a chuckle, "I'm just yanking ya."

"Yeah no shit," Fell barked, turning to glare at Dance who was still giving a smug grin, there's a brief pause where neither of them speak, "how long do you think it'll be before Ink comes back?

"You told him to leave for a month didn't you?" Dance asked, Fell nodded, "I personally place some trust into that guy because he hasn't let my universe get destroyed, so, I would believe him, you don't have to take his word though," now Fell felt uneasy, Dance noticed, "I won't get mad if you don't trust him, he is kind of... Off kilter at times."

"Okay good it's not just me who thinks that," Fell got out, words strung together like bullets and shot out rapidly, "but, my point still stands."

"Do you not want to go home?" Dance asked gently as he pulled his legs from the counter, Fell nodded.

"No, no I don't want to go back," Fell explained, there it was again, he could feel it start to build up in his eye sockets again, Dance stood beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, "this is more home than anywhere else I've been in my life," Dance tilts Fells skull till there's eye contact.

"You're always welcome here," Dance reassured, gently pressing his side to Fells, it catches the red counterpart off guard but he leans into the touch, resting his skull on the dancers shoulder.

"Thank you," it came out too quiet for Dance to hear, but even if he did hear he wouldn't push Fell away.

When Fell takes a step back, he isn't actually quite sure of where he's supposed to go from here.

"So, did you get a chance to show off your skills yet?" Dance asked, it takes Fell a moment to realize what he means.

"Yeah, yeah me 'n Undyne did some dancin', it was fun," Fell explained, struggling to not break back into sobs, Dance was polite enough not to mention it, "said you used to dance with her," Dance tensed right away.

"That was in the past, I don't really like to dance a whole lot due to recent resets," Dance said, he redirected his gaze to the ground, he reached to pull his hood over his head.

"What about that first night I was here?" Fell asked, Dance shrugged his shoulders.

"Lost a bet with Papyrus, had to dance, he said it was for my own good," Dance explained, he sounded tense and he looked uneasy around the subject, but he didn't give enough time for Fell to stop him from continuing, "but whats the point if we're all just gonna die anyways? Frisk will just keep coming down here and play with our souls until they've finally decided to empty this hole for good," tears tinted blue start to roll down his face.

Fell takes a moment to answer, "the point is because something might change," his reasoning was true, but it didn't look like it was coming across clear, "you lasted this long, and look, now you got a refugee to take care of, that might change Frisks mind," Dance looks up from the ground.

"I guess so," his voice is full of disbelief, but, he still voices agreement because somewhere he knows its true.

"Good, because when I finish learning a song for you it'd be neat if ya danced to it," Fells confidence wears away the further he gets into the sentence and its almost endearing.

Dance isn't sure of himself when he speaks, "I'd love to."

---

"I need one more week," Fells demand comes out pleading, he sits on the couch while Ink sits on the floor against a wall, almost directly across from him.

"I can't give you anymore weeks, your brother needs you in the AU he chose to stay in after Dream restored him, you've been here for five months, you've completed your promises, it's time to go and that is final," Ink transitions from sitting on the floor to standing relatively close to Fell throughout his speech, his voice is dead, and his pupils are lifeless, devoid of color nor shape, "no one else has been this much of a pain when I gave them a second chance."

Fell stands up, "I need one more week," he presses a finger to Inks chest as he speaks, and this time his demand comes out a little bit firmer, Ink glances down to where the contact is.

"I'm running out of excuses for why you aren't able to go live with your brother in Fellswap, I couldn't give you one more week if I wanted to," He grabs Fells wrist and his hand is icy, there is no pulse of magic and this is the first time Fell noticed the lack of it.

The door opens and they both turn to find Dance walking in with a thin sheet of snow on his hoodie, he reaches to pull off his hood but only pulls it a bit tighter over his hat when he sees Ink. He's hesitant to walk over and dispute the conflict because he's afraid Ink will erase him and he knows Ink could if he wanted to- still, when he catches the way Ink drops Fells hand roughly he decides to walk over.

"What happens to be the problem, officer," Dance adds on 'officer' as a joke, but he's certain he'll regret doing so.

Ink closes his eyes reopens them, his pupils have a bit more shape this time, and there's almost a tint of green, "Fells brother is waiting for him in Fellswap, so I'm here to take him there until further notice," Ink explained, Dance took each word thoughtfully, he was beginning to understand why Fell didn't like this guy.

"Okay, chill," Dance said, Inks expression softened, "but," a small smirk was present on Dances face as he spoke, "I'll need him around for about two weeks, tops."

"Why would you want him around an extra two weeks?" Ink asked coldly, Dance gave a hum of thoughtfulness, it pissed off Ink even more, he forgot how agitating AUs could be when they get attached to each other.

"Well, for starters, he still has to play for Asgore, and with the king holding a ball two weeks from now it'll be the only time Fell gets a chance, I even convinced Tori to tag along," Dance explained, blending lies with the truth in the hopes it would make Ink decide to let Fell stay, the guardian seemed unmoved at the notions, "and I want him to stay until we get a chance to dance together," raw emotion is underneath the sentiment but he tries to keep properly hidden, Ink quirked a metaphorical brow, he caught it.

He smirks a bit before speaking, "I'm shocked you haven't danced yet, all things considered I assumed you two would've by now," Ink said, Dance and Fell can both pick up the venom in his voice, he was planning something, "tell you what, I'll give you the two weeks, no, I'll give you three and then I'll be removing Fell from Dancetale, permanently," the malice in his tone and the promise of never seeing Dance again makes Fell feel twisted inside, this was his home, this was where he best fit in, and Ink is dead set on making sure he can't return- does he even know?

Fell gives a sigh, "fine, I'll see you in three weeks, tell the Boss I got caught up in a reset and you're working on fixing up my memories or something like that," he was signing himself off on leaving this AU and never returning just like so, but, three weeks is better than one he supposed; Dance still looked shook.

"Yeah, we'll see you in a couple of weeks," Dance choked out, watching as Ink made his departure, sinking into the black ooze below him.

There's silence again, this time its agonizing- Fell speaks first.

"Thanks for buying two extra weeks of time," Fell said quietly, he raised a hand to rub his humerus, not sure what else to do, he glanced to the side.

"Least I could do for you, you're the best thing to happen to Dancetale in a long time," Dance explained, Fell didn't believe the compliment.

"Really?" The question is a little bit shaky and Dance turns from the trace amounts of paint Ink left behind to face Fell instead.

Dance doesn't know what exactly to say, "definitely, I promise," the confidence in his tone doesn't falter even if he wanted it to, "we should probably start practicing if we want to actually do a respectable job of playing in the kings court," Fell quirked a brow as he started to look for his bass.

"We?" He asked, Dance gave a nod as he started up the stairs.

"Yeah, we, I play trombone, and before you go saying 'I don't play trombone' I'm gonna guess, you play the trumpet," the accuracy of Dances assumption is startling and shows on Fells expression, "nailed it, I'll be down in a second."

Fell gives a prompt 'okay' before he takes a seat on the couch and shuffles up his sheet music, searching for anything that could fit a ballroom dance. He knows that the genre usually doesn't consist of bass and now trombone, but he'll make it work out, if not for the king then for how people will remember him here. If no one will remember him in Underfell than everyone will remember him in Dancetale, even when Ink never lets him return, he won't be forgotten.

He starts strumming blandly, achieving random chords until he feels confident enough to follow the sheet itself. He keeps his eyes on the sheet as he counts the music, its a lot slower than he's used to, but, he manages. Then he hears a sort of muffled noise from upstairs, its an instrument for sure, he doesn't stop playing until he hears something fall, followed by a brief exclamation of 'fuck!' then he puts down his bass. Before he start walking over and up Dance opens up the door, trombone in hand, prepped to play, waiting for Fell to start up the tune.

Fell almost laughs at the sight, he forgot how stupid trombone looks, solely the reason he chose trumpet instead. Still, he picks his bass back up and starts playing again, Dance tries to chime in with the music, but he's messing up pretty badly. Fell doesn't point it out though, almost afraid he'll stifle Dances enthusiasm if he does- he wants to duet with Dance on the stage, but the blue counterpart will no doubt end up on the dance floor instead. Still, they play the song out till the end and Dance is laughing at the end of it all.

"Man, I suck, how do you even do that?" Dance asked, he sounded winded and there was an air of joy on his voice.

"Practice," Fell gave a strum as though to prove his point with how smooth it sounded.

"I figured as much," Dance gave a sigh as he spoke, but he sounded enthusiastic when he spoke again, "I'm sure we'll be golden in time for the ball though!"

Fell gave a bit of a chuckle as he stared upon the strings of the his bass, they were different colors and thickness due to being salvaged from the dump, "definitely," he sounds a bit lighthearted, but what Ink had promised still rings in his ears and he's afraid of the three week mark finally coming to an end.

But nothing will stop him from enjoying it while it lasts.

Dance takes note of Fells silence and places a hand on his shoulder, "I'm sorry that I couldn't buy you more time here."

"You got nothing to be sorry for, I'll find my way back if I want to and Ink can do nothing about it," Fell said, Dance didn't look convinced.

"Fell, you really are the best thing to happen to me since Dream, well, since he gave me these," Dance grabbed a small pill bottle from his pocket and tossed it to Fell who caught it, "I don't want you to risk getting erased just to make everyone here happy," Fell glances over the instructions on the bottle and he can feel his soul ache, he could see the signs here and there, he just couldn't tell if he was misreading or not.

"You have depression?" Dance nods at the visceral thickness in Fells voice.

"Yeah, since you dropped by I haven't been taking 'em though, I've just been happier," Dance explained, he sounded pained around the topic, "Science says its a chemical thing and there's nothing I can do about it," he holds out a hand and Fell gives him back the bottle, he holds out his other hand and waits for Fell to take it, "so please, promise me that you won't get yourself erased."

"I really don't like making promises," was all Fell could choke out in the presence of new confirmed information, Dance sighed before giving a forced smile.

"Then promise me we'll dance at the kings ball before you go?" Dance asked, Fell nodded and Dance lifted his hand from Fells shoulder.

"Of course I will, I would've danced with you anytime, you just had ta ask," Fell explained.

Dance glanced to the side, "never found a good moment," he looked to the side, "you were always dancing with Undyne and Mettaton, or playing your bass."

Fell hesitantly lifts a hand and slowly tilts Dances skull until they're making eye contact again, "I would've dropped it to dance with ya," his voice is so genuine it shocks both of them a little bit, "to late for that though," Fell lowers his hand back down.

"Guess we'll just have to make it count at the ball then," Dance said, he's smiling a little bit, it's a real smile, not fake and Fell can catch the difference.

"I was heavily planning on making it count even if we'd danced a hundred times already," Fell said confidently, he takes note of the blue rising to Dances cheekbones as the blue counterpart stands up.

"Cool, I got to go though, sell some 'dogs, help Asgore set up," Dance said, grasping for reasons to leave before things got to be too much to handle without slipping up, "you know where to find me if you need me," and in an instant he's slipping out the door before Fell can speak up.

He's tempted to just rush after him, but he refrains, let him breath, give him some time, he's making the right choice doing so. He should be practicing with his bass, but in the same essence he also really doesn't want to make an ass out of himself dancing. He'd rather mess up playing music for the king he'll never see again than misstep dancing with the monster who owns the house he's sleeping in. He knows he won't get kicked out if he does, but he's still hesitant to actually risk messing up and getting booted into the snow for a few nights.

He won't mess up, he refuses to let himself mess up- he needs help from Mettaton as soon as possible.

He makes his way to the door and takes his shortcut, it's even more alive than last time, now it's full of swirling reds and he can hear his souls thrum echo around the walls. It even smells like something other than dry ice, he doesn't know what exactly it is that he smells on the air though. Still, stepping out of the darkness into the background of blues feels uncanny; he knocks on the door of the pink house he ends up in front of and Mettaton answers.

He's a mess, Fell must've caught him off guard, he doesn't seem to mind being caught with bedhead though, simply lets Fell into the palace of pink. He takes a seat on the table his TV rests on while Fell takes a seat at the edge of his bed instead, Fell doesn't speak at first.

"What's got you down darlin'?" Mettaton asked, Fell heaved in a breath, and then another before answering.

"I still don't know how to get across my point by dancing," Fell said, rubbing his vertebrae as he did so.

Mettaton pauses, "I'd say you get your point across quite nicely darling, you just haven't had a chance to get across a specific point yet, right?" Mettaton doesn't even need to make it sound like a question, he's already pinpointed the problem exactly.

Fell nods.

"Do tell what it is, I promise I won't tell," Mettaton did gave the undergrounds equivalent of scouts honor to prove his point as he smirked.

"I don't even know, I just, I really care about 'em, and I don't wanna leave, I just wanna be there for 'em, ya know?" Fell asked with a sigh, he had a horrible feeling Mettaton knew exactly who he was talking about, but he didn't wanna drop names for no good reason.

"I know exactly how you feel, I don't know if there's a lot I can do for you to be of assistance," Mettaton leaned on his glass tube TV as he spoke, he felt bad about not having much to help Fell, the times he would go on the air with him got amazing ratings, "just make a plan, write a speech, really speak with your soul."

"I've never had a chance to do that before," Fell said with a bit of a chuckle, "Underfell isn't to kind to showing emotion other than resilience and caustic hatred," Mettaton gave a small hum before reaching behind his TV, he pulled up an empty diary, it's blue.

He walks over and sits beside Fell, "I never used this one cause it didn't fit my style, but, use it to plan," Fell gladly takes the diary and opens it up, running phalanges along the pages, "write drafts, find good metaphor, anything that you feel about them, put in there- you'll come across what you need to say soon enough darling."

"Can I have a pen?" Fell asked as he opened to the first page, Mettaton hands him a page and Fell starts to furiously scribbling down word after word that the robot can barely make out, the ink is blue and glittery- the pen was a gift.

"You can have the pen as well," Mettaton offered, once Fell is finished writing he closes the diary and places both items in his pockets.

Fell takes a moment to answer, "thanks, I'll let you know how it goes once it's over," Mettaton starts to grin at that notion.

"Good luck darling!" Enthusiasm laces the robots voice as Fell makes his way back out of the pit of pink.

He doesn't make it much farther than just outside the door before he sits down on the ground and starts writing again. Most of what he writes is just nonsensical praise, but its not like anyone else is going to ever read it anyways. Some words come out more often than others, some are only mentioned once, but all of them tie into Dance, or, whatever Fell sees in Dance at least.

He'll find the right words before the ball, he has too- he should also say hi to this Asgore before he gets roped into performing for him in front of a crowd. He shoves the diary and pen into his pockets again as he heads to an archway, a door of some sort, and closes his eyes, swiftly walking through the shortcut. He just needs get things over with, a short introduction, say he can play a tune sometime after the ball, or for a smaller audience because he is not ready to play in front of the entire underground. He keeps his eyes closed until he feels grass of the throne room under his feet, he opens them to find the room empty, but he distantly hears speaking.

He follows the sound, when he was in Underfell he would run from sound, but its safer here. Sound almost never means violence here, it almost never means something absolutely traumatizing, sound means safety here. Sound means music, sound means singing, sound means dancing here, sound means everything but danger here- and despite knowing that Fell still feels hesitant. Once he can differ their voices a little bit more does his pace actively slow so he can hear more, pick up details he'd never hear anywhere else.

What Fell can pick up is lost on him because unlike what he thought, it wasn't Dance planning his public humiliation of having to perform and lose himself to nerves. No, instead it was just a regular conversation, talking about the simple things, the topic of the ball itself isn't brought up until Fells speech would be within earshot. He doesn't speak though, but he almost freezes up entirely when his name is mentioned but instead he picks up his pace a little bit so he doesn't hear something he isn't supposed to that could hurt him.

He clears his throat and they perk up from their conversation as he walks over. Dances pupils look larger, positivity, lots of it, he took one too many pills, or that was what the prescribed dose did, Fell didn't know and it made him feel uneasy. His smile looks a little bit drunk, a little bit fake, he is confiscating those pills (could he really?). He doesn't care if Dream prescribed them, that's clearly too much positivity for one monster to handle. Fell walks over and takes a seat with them at the table.

"You must be Fell, I've heard so many great thing about you!" Asgores happiness makes Fell feel out of place, but he tries to keep telling himself most Asgores are like this, happy.

"Oh? Dance has been lying again?" Fell asked in a faux manner.

"From everyone, although he was mentioning you wanted to play a song during the ball," Asgore said, Fells glance flickered over to Dances, he had his head propped in his hands, elbows resting on the table.

Fell takes a moment to steady himself, "I was wondering if I could chicken outta that, stage fright and all, I'd love ta play something for a much smaller audience than the entire Underground," Asgores excitement dulled just a bit but he still smiled softly and nodded.

"I understand, I was also told you'd be leaving in a few weeks," Asgore said, Fell nodded and grabbed Dances cup of tea, it was still entirely full.

"Yeah, the guardian of the multiverse ain't to pleased with me overstaying my welcome," Fell said, almost shamefully, he took a sip of tea, golden flower tea, he placed it back down, it was almost too cold to be enjoyed now, almost.

"Well, I do hope that my people have been good hosts during your stay," Asgore said in a bit of a hopeful tone.

"Of course they have- I'm more worried I haven't been a good guest," Fell blurted out, it escaped before he could stop the words from exiting his mouth, Dance spoke before Asgore could.

"You've been an amazing guest," Dance said, his voice was way too airy, way too happy, this was not the normal Dance, "I promise," Fell swears he catches Dances pupils try to shift shape, positivity overdose no doubt about.

"Are you okay Dance?" Fell asked gently as he nudged the cup of tea to Dance, he pushed it back.

"I'm fine," this time his voice sounds almost completely different than the last, but it's a lot closer to the one Fell is used to hearing.

"This always happens whenever he takes his medication," Asgore answers before fell can ask further questions, "I'm not quite sure why, but after this stops he's a lot happier," Fell nodded.

"Right," was all he murmured as he stared at Dance who stared back, his hood was down and Fell barely realized it, he reached to pull it back up, "I guess I'll be seeing you at the ball."

"You're still going to come?" Asgore asked, Fell could hear the lift in the kings mood in one sentence.

"Absolutely, I'll be making an ass of myself on the dance floor instead of on the stage," Fell said with a bit of a grin as he stood up and made his way to the door.

"Alright, see ya then," Asgore said, turning back to Dance and trying to keep him awake with conversation.

As soon as Fell was past the shortcut he started to worry. Dance said he'd stop taking those shortly after Fell arrived because he was feeling better, what happened? This could be an attempt at an acclimation period of having to go back on it. Fell understood that, but he still had three weeks before he left for good. He wasn't going to take them forever, first he needed to see the aftereffects of the buzz Dance was experiencing right now, to see just how much it changes him in the long run of things.

(He knows he would never actually take them away.)

He made his way over to the couch, grabbing his bass and strumming chords, trying to get across his point to no one in particular. It sounded off, his count was sloppy again, his worry and was that a bit of anger mixed in as well? Whatever it was, it screwed up his playing, his emotions muddied together and reflected in his playing but it didn't sound right. He was starting to get agitated with himself, this was his fault, if he tried harder, if he bargained better, if he just put a gun to Errors head and pulled the trigger none of this would be happening.

Ink wouldn't be repossessing monster from AU to AU, Dance wouldn't be hopped up on positivity, and Fell wouldn't be wasting everyone's time in Dancetale.

He threw down his bass with a prompt exclamation of 'fuck!' the neck of said bass easily split, strings curling in on themselves with a disturbing twang. He stares at the broken instrument, that was the only one in the dump, and Alphys said that they don't fall down very often, fuck, there goes his one way of compensating for lack of dancing skills. He crosses his arms over his chest and pushes himself further into the corner where the armrest meets the back of the couch, he closes his eyes and waits for something to happen.

A door opening, someone speaking, even distant music, just something to drag himself away from whatever's going on inside his skull. He slides off the couch with a drawn out groan, might as well pull his weight and clean up the remains of whatever it was he could do in this Underground. The wood is heavier in his hands than it ever was and the cord gets caught between the segments of his phalanges; chips of paint slip off the back of the neck where the wood was mangled into separation on impact.

He isn't even sure where he's supposed to go with it, what he's supposed to do with it, he's never broken an instrument before. He could bring it to Grillbys, wood feeds fire, and all, but he's not sure if it would be taken as an insult or a gift. So instead he heads to where Waterfall meets Snowdin, carrying his shattered bass with him on the way- he takes a seat on the ground with a sigh, its gravel and ice, algae is still trying to form. He knows this isn't how you dispose of garbage, and that Alphys will find it, but he doesn't know what else he's supposed to do. He shrugs off his jacket before leaning over the water, holding his bass gently as he lowers it into the water, it stays buoyant even as it makes its way downstream. He stares, there goes his last leg to stand on in Dancetale, now he really is worthless here. He pulls his jacket back on as he stands up.

He goes to turn but finds Dance standing behind him, he didn't even hear the footsteps.

"Hi," Dance managed quietly, his pupils were back to normal, he reached into his pocket.

"Were you lying earlier?" Fell can't stop it from spilling out of him.

"No, I just, need to get my body used to it again if you'll be leaving so soon," Dance said, "I should be taking it pretty often, but, Dream said nothing too bad will happen if I only take it sometimes," he pulled the bottle from his pocket and shook it, only a few left, "besides, that was just a buffer for when you have to leave, didn't mean shit."

Fell gives a small nod, "so, you're gonna be hopped on positivity for the next couple weeks?"

"Naw, they taste disgusting, I'll be fine anyways," he puts the bottle back into his pocket, "promise."

"Alrighty then, but, you'll take 'em every now and then right? I don't want you to dust after I leave because you took too many and couldn't take it," Fell said, his concern was thick and and endearing to Dance.

"I promise, I'll take 'em before I go to sleep so I'm not painfully high on positivity when I'm awake," he held out a hand as he spoke, "you trust me, right?"

Fell grabbed Dances hand gently before clutching him tightly, yanking him close enough that their ribs could grate against each other, "of course I do," his voice is low, barely above a whisper, and clearly meant only for Dance to hear, he pulls back slowly and carefully, "now, will you teach me how to dance?" Dances smile is lost on Fell who doesn't understand it.

"Maybe at the ball I'll teach you how to foxtrot, try at least," Dance glanced away from Fell and to the water instead, he barely caught a glimpse of the bass as it faded from view, "guess you won't be playing for me, huh?"

It takes Fell a moment to get the notions, "I got mad, sorry, I'll come back soon enough and play for you then, consider it a date," his confidence is unwavering and he's smirking a bit as well.

"I expect something phenomenal for a one man show then," Dance said, his expression almost mirrored that of Fells.

"I can promise soul but I can't promise skill," Fells tone was almost nervous, but it was genuine.

"Fine by me," Dance responded in a voice just as genuine and now its Fells turn to feel all warm and fuzzy inside, he can feel warmth wicking at the inside of his ribs, it feels nice yet foreign, "wouldn't have it any other way."

"Okay good, cause I'm bringing this rat named Neil, and we will be bangin' out the tunes for ya," Fell said, grinning as he did so, it draws a snort of laughter from Dance.

"Oh yeah?" Dance asked jokingly.

"Of course, we'll be performing classics such as Descend, Umbral Ultimatum, and many more," his sarcasm is clear but it still makes Dance laugh a bit.

"Amazing, just beautiful, I'm looking forward to it," Dance said with a grin on his face, a bit of a laugh was in his voice.

---

Dance is gripping Toriels wrist in one hand and has his other arm linked with Fells as he leads them both through the core, holding onto Toriel so she doesn't chicken out and Fell so he doesn't fall into a pit. His grip is gentle, phalanges getting caught in snowy fur, but he keeps Fell pressed so closely to his side they might as well be glued together- he really doesn't have too, Fell already knows how to watch his step, but, he hasn't gotten any objections so he doesn't stop. Fells just glad he's gotten better at keeping up with the pace this AU set, and beating down magic rushing to his skull.

"Sans I'm not so sure this is a good idea anymore," Toriel said, her voice held a hesitance to it, a breath of fear was evident.

"Relax Tori, you'll be fine," Dance said, he kept his voice easy, comforting in a sense, leading his guests across a turn, elevator coming into distant view.

"Alright, I believe you," she barely sounds confident in herself, distantly aware that something bad could happen.

"I could take the first dance if you want me to," Dance offered, Fell felt the slightest pang of jealousy shoot through him at the notion, but he suffocated the feeling before it could evolve.

Toriel gives a soft smile, "that would be lovely, but, what about your friend?" Fell perks up a bit.

"Naw, it's perfectly fine, I'm not that good at dancin' anyways," Fell said, deflecting to the best of his ability, he raised his free hand to assist in waving off the notion, "I'll probably get the second dance anyways," Dance doesn't respond instantly and his expression drops a bit, "right?"

"I usually don't dance after the first song," Dance admitted, he sounded bit nervous as he pressed the button on the elevator, doors closed the ground shook a bit before it moved.

"Okay," his answer is quiet and he loosens his arm from Dances grip gently, shrugging him off, trying to subtly step to the side.

Silence came to rest between the three aside from the hum of elevator taking its time to drift upwards to castle grounds. Toriel was nervous in the silence, she wasn't even between them, she felt like she had walked in on Asgore declaring war all over again- she wasn't supposed to be caught in this event. Dances grip on her wrist loosened and he opted to make his way over to Fell, gently grabbing his hands, he looked up reflexively.

Dance took a bit of a shaky breath, "I didn't say I couldn't make an exception for you," Fells expression lifts just a bit and he interlaces his phalanges with Dances.

"Good, cause I can't wait to make an ass of myself just for you," Fell said, he was smiling a bit as he did so, he stumbled when the elevator came to a halt.

Dance had to refrain from laughing at Fells misstep, "oh yeah, it's going to be magnificent," his voice is laced with sarcasm but he's smiling as he leads the two past open doors, gripping Fells hand tightly and not even bothering to grasp Toriels as she follows them down hallways.

She looks a bit downtrodden, she knew this place, she knew it so well, but it's a little bit different now, potted plants have been replaced- golden flowers are everywhere. She's tempted to stall so she can a get a better look at how things have shifted, she lived here once, but, its clear to see that she hasn't in a long time. She follows Dance and Fell down corridors with ease, but her thoughts and her gaze are stuck on how much happened in this place until the setting changes a little bit. It's still inside the castle, but now it's a ballroom, its cast in a golden glow and full of monsters already dancing to the music set in place.

Fell feels out of place, especially when Dance lets go of his hand, "I gotta go do this dance with Tori, I'll be back soon though," Dance is smiling a bit as he speaks, Fell nods.

"Cool, I'll be at the snack table," the shake in his voice is almost entirely concealed as he makes his way over to the table in question, watching as Dance leads Toriel into the mix of monsters, leading her in a dance.

Fell tries to not to stare, but he really can't help it, nor can he help the envy starting to bubble up. That could be him out there, swaying gracefully like swans across the golden draped hall, but it's not. Instead it's Toriel, and he can't blame Dance for that, he just feels a little bit left out- he'll be gone soon enough and Toriel will always be here, yet he still hasn't danced with him once. He forces it back down, he can come back to get a dance anyways, not like Ink could stop him even if he tried too. Sure, as nice as it would be to dance here, he would take dancing in a dumpster, or the depths of the woods, anywhere- so long as it meant getting one dance before he has to leave he would take it.

Maybe that's a bit selfish, maybe that's just adoration, he can't really tell because of how blurred the line is at this point. He grabs a can of pop and opens it, the fizzle of the carbonation drones in his skull as he watches. It's nice seeing Dance smile, nice being able to tell he's enjoying himself despite all odds- Fell can see himself in Dance during those moments, not by a whole lot, but just enough it makes him ache. He turns to leave, he isn't even sure where he's going, just leaving the area so his strenuous heartache can go away for one second.

The music gets more distant as he walks, not quite quiet for his footsteps to echo, he's thankful for that, it kind of annoys him at times. He doesn't know why he's thankful for something so small, maybe because that's the sort of thing he could be thankful about in Underfell- but here he's thankful about it because he can be. He doesn't have to be thankful over the little things here, like food on the table, seeing someone smile, a nice quiet, because those are common here. But he still is, everyone knows that'll be all he has left when he has too return to Underfell; or the caricature Ink has crafted in its place.

He finds himself pushing open doors and slipping further and further into the labyrinth that is the royal castle of Dancetale. Even if he had gotten a chance to explore the royal castle of Underfell, he's certain he still wouldn't know where he's going until he gets there. Not until he realizes his footsteps are landing on grass and flowers does he come to the conclusion he's lost himself in his own skull again. He heaves a sigh, taking a glance at wherever it is that he's at. Walls are behind him but not in front or to the side, golden flowers stretch from the garden beds into the grass, and in the distance he sees the glimmer of Waterfall. The entire room is quiet, it's just him again, birds don't even chirp, and flowers don't dare bloom- like he's a threat to their existence.

What better time than to practice his steps, not even a tango anymore, simply the amalgamated style of those around him. He slides around the open field, he finds Undynes style prominent, the gracefulness of her dance living through him with ease. He catches brief glimpses of what Mettaton taught him slipping in here and there the way he holds himself with confidence despite the fact their is no audience. He knows that what Papyrus showed him lays at the base of his dance, everything he's building off of returns to that simple tango he was taught all those weeks ago.

And he doesn't stop dancing because why should he, he knows he won't have anytime to dance in Underfell, he might as well make the most of what little time he has left. He's aware that losing himself in the royal castle isn't gonna raise his chances of getting one dance with Dance, but, what's done is done. He'll dance himself into collapsing if it means passing the time so he ignore the fact that it's Toriel that's having the dance that he deserves. When he brings himself to finish with a bit of a flair, his soul is pounding and his bones are beginning to ache, he hears a slow clap and whips his skull back to find Dance simply staring.

"I thought you said you were bad at dancing?" Dance asked, quirking a metaphorical brow as he spoke, Fell doesn't answer right away, "from what I saw, that was certainly something special- especially coming from a monster who doesn't belong in this AU."

Fell pauses to breath, "I thought it was kinda shitty, a hodge podge of everyone elses thing, ya know," his explanation was broken up by heavy breaths, Dance chuckled a bit as he walked over to Fell.

"It'll make it easier for other people to dance with you, if you're that adaptable, get it?" Dance asked, holding out his hands.

Fell let his gaze flicker between Dances eyes and his hands, "yeah, I get it," he grabs Dances hands, "care to show me the ropes on how you do things then?"

Dance grins before he starts to move, leading Fell through the steps, annotating the movements as he went. He seemed stressed, like this is new to him, like he's afraid of something that he couldn't beat nor avoid. He proceeds though, persevering if not for himself then so Fell would have something to remember him by until his memories were fully yanked from even the furthest depths of his self; a True Reset was really the only threat to any monster that wanted to remember. And Dance wanted to remember, he didn't want to forget Fell even if it meant making deals with demons like Nightmare and Error- he wasn't sure if Fell wanted to remember and that caused his trains of thoughts to collide and derail.

Putting so much effort into making sure he wouldn't forget when he might secretly want to, he feels almost hysterical when the realization of the notions strangulate him. He keeps dancing though because Fell is smiling, he snuffs out his worries and his agonies and his own personal problems because he absolutely refuses to burden a guest in his AU. Still, tears tinted blue start to well up in his eye sockets, he forces a dip so they can roll back into his skull, not seen not known. When they come back up from the dip Fell looks a bit puzzled and Dance steps back, releasing the intimacy.

"Pretty sure that whatever it was we were doing doesn't have dips," Fell said cautiously, unsure if he still wasn't well versed in the ever intricate map of dance styles or if Dance was the one who messed up.

Dance stifled whatever emotions were roiling up in the back of his throat before speaking, "I just, wanted to try something new," he was lying and Fell could see right through, "I haven't taught someone in a long time, just thought I'd fuck around and find out, not like you would be able to tell if it was wrong- turns out I was wrong then," there's a forced laugh and Fell hesitantly takes a step closer, "we can stop if that ruined the mood."

Fell gently placed his hands on Dances shoulders, lifting them to nudge off his hood, he expected recoil but was met with acceptance of the actions, "I said we would dance, I'm not breaking that promise even if it's the last thing I do," he gives a soft smile before dropping his hands down to meet Dances, "so please, I'd love for ya to continue."

"Alright, just follow my lead," Dance said, speaking softly as he did so, he raises their hands to proper positioning, "and don't be afraid to have some fun, we both know we'll start to diverge from the the foxtrot anyways," Fell gives a bit of a nod.

Don't forget, don't slip up, it's just a demonstration, how come he feels like he's dying, like he's floating on nothing. His grip on Fells hands is tighter than he expects it to be and he can barely catches the way Fells phalanges twitch under the pressure- he loosens his grip a little bit. The dance is swift, sashaying back and forth across the field of flowers and grass, veering from center to wall. Fell rarely trips over Dances feet, keeping up without much struggle even as the style devolves from a foxtrot to something a lot less calculable. Mixing in moves that require drops and lots of room to execute, slipping in techniques that press their chests flush against each other- it's a chaotic ensemble but it feels right.

It's raw and passionate and everything that Fell needs to get across his thoughts without actually speaking them, he just hopes Dance is good at interpreting. He gets the hang of it, control is split in twain between them, and with Undyne it felt like he was fighting for control, but here it feels like he's forcing it to Dance who shoves it back into his grasp again. His soul is simply pounding in his chest, he can catch the notes, he can count the beat, it matches Dancetales beat- it matches Dances pulse. He follows that beat, it's fast, but it feels natural, like it belongs exactly as it is, Dance follows the seven four beat, or what feels like a seven four beat at the least.

This time there's flaws in the movements, slip-ups here and there, but they could care less when contact is prolonged or balance is momentarily lost. This might as well be it, the last and first time they'll get a chance to dance together- why bother nitpicking over the details if they're never gonna see each other again. Eye contact is held throughout most of it and when Dance stops annotating and giving tips a heavy silence drops between them- only able to hear the soft sounds of shoes crushing grass and the pulse of their souls. It feels right, it feels so impossibly right, this is exactly where Fell wants to stay- here, in Dancetale, with Dance and just existing without constantly looming threats and fears.

Then Dance starts to cry, pulling their movements to a halt as he leans into Fell. Sobs shake his form and he doesn't let got of Fells hands, only grips them tighter because he's going to lose this anchor forever soon enough. A True Reset will take place and he'll forget entirely, his memories will be wiped down completely leaving him with a slate. Dance isn't ready for Fell to forget him forever, nor is he ready to forget Fell- he's fucked no matter how you look at things.

"Please don't forget me," the plead is barely decipherable from between hiccuping sobs and heaving breaths.

Fell roughly yanks one hand from Dances but wrapped it around his midsection tightly before the dancer could retract himself, "I couldn't forget ya even if I tried," the emotion in his voice is raw and burns like fire as it spills out and he can't stop it, "I promise, I will never forget you."

Dance didn't respond right away, only let go of Fells other hand and pulled him a little bit tighter, "I'm sorry, I don't- you don't have to remember me, I'm probably not a good memory right now-" Fell raises his free hand and uses it to cover Dances mouth before he can continue.

"I said I couldn't forget ya didn't I, I won't forget you, denial is my specialty, even a True Reset couldn't beat that," Fell explained, using 'denial' in the hopes that it could do even a fraction of the job that is shoving his emotions under a rug, he has an entire notebook explaining the hundreds, if not thousands, of thoughts running through his head.

Dance nods, "yeah, Gaster once-" Fell brought his hand to Dances mouth again.

"Let's not bring him into this," Fell said gently, awaiting a response but not getting one, he heaved a deep breathe, "denials not the word I'm looking for- hell, the words I'm looking for ain't even any languages thesaurus," he's stumbling over everything that's tearing through him all at once and it feels liberating to just get it off his chest.

Dance quirks a metaphorical brow, but he drops the smug look, "ain't that the truth?" Humor laces what he says and he isn't sure why he laughs a little bit as he speaks, he wants to let his gaze drop down but he can't, he lets his focus linger on how synchronized the thrum of their souls are instead.

The silence still stagnates uncomfortably around them and Fell speaks, "even if my Papyrus threatened to kill me if I didn't stop thinking about you, I still would. You'll never stop being stuck on repeat in my head Dance- even if there was a True Reset, doubt Frisk'll ever manage one in my AU, I would still remember you and come back to find you again," his voice was thick and the viscera in his tone stuck with Dance, caught him off guard if you will and it showed on his face.

Dance brought his hand to Fells and interlaced their phalanges, "cool, me too dude," again, there's a bit of a laugh to his tone but his words come out painstakingly genuine and it feels like he's pulling himself out of a quicksand pit by saying them, "so, do you wanna try that again?"

Fell releases Dance from his grasp, "depends, think you can keep up now that I'm thinking straight again?" It's a challenge, there's a bite of playfulness to his that Dance gladly relishes in compared to the contrast of the raw confessions laid down mere seconds before.

"Thinking straight after what you just said? Don't lie to yourself, you're thinking gay- let's dance," he's grinning as he speaks, yanking Fell into a spin that follows a heavy dip, leaving his spine arched against the only balance stability he can depend on, Dance draws his hand not supporting Fells back to pull his hand higher up and ou- Fells skull instantly washes over in crimson.

"Oh fuck me," it came out as a mutter, barely audible, and Dance had the guts to smirk.

He gave a hum of amusement, "maybe later," he speaks so nonchalantly it makes Fell want to scream, but he refrains, simply sliding along with the motions Dance sets in place.

[fanfic-corner]

10–50k Destiel Fics pt 3

Here is the third and final part of novella-length Destiel fics for your reading enjoyment!!

You can read part one here and part two here.

Crazy Hex Girlfriend by whichstiel (10k)

Dean and Castiel infiltrate an extravagant couples-only Halloween party at the invitation of the party’s host who has been receiving mysterious threats. They patrol the party for hex bags and dark altars, interview suspects, and Dean happily scores a lot of free food. He just wishes he could score with Cas.

Cuckoo And Nest by komodobits (10k)

For a long time, Castiel thought that every earthly possession other than the immediately necessary was excess to requirement. But Dean – Dean who named his car, who keeps a photograph of his mother in his wallet, some thirty-plus years after her death, who still has the crumpled ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign with a sleeping pelican emblazoned on it from the Microtel outside of Roanoke where he first kissed Castiel, clumsy and unsure, under the unsteady fluorescence of an exhausted bathroom bulb – is sentimental.

It puzzles Castiel, where Dean draws the line between what is meaningful and what it is worthless.

Broadway Musical by Griftings (12k)

This is the day that marked the Holy and Blessed Union of Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle.

The merging of prominent bloodlines is always a grand occurrence, but breeding pedigree hunter families like Winchester and Harvelle is something to be rejoiced. It is also something to be meticulously planned, which thankfully the Host is very good at.

Or, the romantic comedy where Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle are destined to get married, Castiel is given the task of playing matchmaker and fails terribly, the entire Heavenly Host becomes a sitcom audience, God warns against male pregnancy, and Jimmy Novak is incredibly unimpressed with angels in general.

akasha by quillquiver  (14k)

Five years ago, an angel fell off the coast of Cannon Beach, Oregon.

Dean’s coming off a vamp nest in Boise when he gets the call on his Other Other Cell: two dead, definitely his kinda thing. But when he arrives in town, what originally looks like a cut-and-dry case soon turns up more questions than it does answers: What kind of monster uses medical equipment to exsanguinate its victims? Why is this monster here in the first place?

And what the hell is up with the witch at the end of the street?

Down Like Water by museaway (14k)

There's no time for nerves, no time for second guessing. There's only right now, and right now he has Cas.

Start Quoting Shakespeare and We're Done by pyrebi (15k)

In which Dean has the hots for a librarian named Cas, Cas may or may not have the hots for a mechanic named Dean, and Gabriel joins Sam in the peanut gallery in the hopes that he might just get to do a horizontal tango of his own.

Take You To The Country by almaasi (18k)

A Dean/Cas 1950s AU. Dean reads an elopement proposal in the town's local newspaper, written by some old soul in love with their best friend. He's mid-way through expressing to his brother how beautiful he finds it when Dean realises the proposal is for him.

What Happened In Vegas by Ltleflrt (18k)

Long time friends Dean and Castiel are road tripping from Chicago to San Diego for Sam and Eileen’s wedding, and a pitstop in Las Vegas turns into drunken love confessions and a surprise marriage. Turns out the pining has been mutual this whole time, but now they’re finally together and on cloud-fucking-nine. Until they remember that this trip isn’t supposed to be about them.

To avoid undermining Sam and Eileen’s important weekend, they decide to keep their new relationship status a secret. They’ll keep the heart eyes toned down and their hands to themselves, but the struggle is real.

Bottoms Up by mnwood (18k)

Sam could’ve kissed them both when he got to the bunker one day to find a string of clothing (his heart nearly burst with hope when he saw the abandoned flannel and trench coat) leading to a very naked pile of limbs tangled on the couch. Just kidding. Of course it wasn’t the couch. Sam always imagined it as the couch because the fact that he actually found them on the dining room table had tainted the happiness of the memory.

Muscle Memory by komodobits (18k)

Dear Castiel, 

Hello – it’s Castiel. This must all seem very confusing, and I’m sorry for that. Dean says to tell you that this isn’t some kind of ‘time-travel stunt’, although I’m sure that won’t be your first thought. I know it wasn’t mine. I’ve told Dean to leave now, as this is my notebook and I want everything in it to come from me – or rather, from you. I know you think it's the fifteenth of January, 2010, but it isn't. At the time of my writing this, the date is the fourth of October, 2013. Dean Winchester is your boyfriend of a year and a half, and you no longer work at the library, and in early 2010 you were hit by a car and hospitalised. I’m sorry.

a.k.a the 50 First Dates Dean/Cas AU where Castiel wakes up on a day just like any other, except that three years have passed without his knowing, and Dean Winchester is in the kitchen wanting to marry him.

Sharing the Rain Dog by almaasi (19k)

When some asshole hits a dog with his car and drives off, the first two people on the scene are Dean and Castiel. Castiel's an FBI agent with a plane to catch, and he doesn't have time to take the dog to the vet. Dean's a musician, and he doesn't have the money. An agreement is reached: Dean goes, Castiel pays, and they'll exchange details and meet again to work things out. But who gets the dog? Sooner or later they're going to realise that having shared custody of one pitbull isn't ideal. She needs one home, not two. One stable, loving home...

Something Icky This Way Comes by almaasi (21k)

Charlie Bradbury is a professional investigator of supernatural happenings, and Dean Winchester is her work partner and best friend, currently bunking in their office. Requiring insight for a particularly bizarre case on the night before Halloween, they call their go-to FBI lab guy, Castiel – who Dean hates. Totally and completely despises. And yet somehow they’ve always gotten along perfectly well in the heat of the moment. Anyway, there’s an ectoplasm-producing rabbit high on catnip floating around the office, and the creature’s predicament really needs to be addressed, or Charlie’s Halloween party will have to be cancelled. And nobody wants that. Least of all, Cas.

The Cabin on the Lake by DeanRH (22k)

The Winchester brothers are long lost to history. The angel keeps the vigil, haunted by the shadows of his regrets.

Among other things.

Purgatory, director's cut by runsinthefamily (23k)

I promised, long ago, to revise and expand my Purgatory series and consolidate it into one fic. Et voila.

Once Upon A Time in a Disney Store by noxsoulmate (23k)

When Castiel Novak gets sick and loses his voice for a few days, he comes up with a clever trick to explain his lost voice to the kids in the Disney Store he works at. One little Mary Winchester, however, takes his note too serious and promptly starts a quest for his prince. Will her charming uncle be able to break the curse and be his one true love?

When Charlie Met Cas by riseofthefallenone (24k)

Charlie is back in all her glory. The Winchesters have showed up on her doorstep and she’s making the best of it the only way she knows how. By being the little sister Dean never wanted and shipping the shit out of Destiel.

Crazy Diamonds by pantheon_of_discord (24k)

A week ago, Dean was pulled out of Hell. Now, he’s apparently woken up in 2018, and the angel that a mere twenty-four hours beforehand had threatened to chuck him back into the pit is sleepily pouring himself coffee and wearing Dean’s second-favourite Zeppelin shirt. It all seems like a perfect happy ending, but with Hell’s scars still so fresh, Dean can’t imagine how he could have possibly gotten there.

At the same time, the Dean who went to sleep in the bunker, right next to Cas, wakes up on Bobby’s couch in 2008. He’s instantly bombarded with questions by a Lilith-obsessed brother and a man who’s been dead for years, and must decide between keeping his finally-perfect life intact, and the lives he could save by re-writing history.

Regardless of these choices, both Deans are trapped in the wrong decade, and their only way back lies with a Castiel still very much under Heaven’s thumb ��� one who might find the future Dean describes difficult to believe.

Ace of Hearts by whelvenwings (26k)

Castiel has felt like an outcast and a freak for years, and is living life mechanically, going through the motions. That all changes when he meets Dean Winchester, who decides to show him some of the better things in life - and get Cas to pay attention to all the things he's been missing.

My Life is a Movie by Tenoko1 (28k)

It started out a simple case. Then it got complicated. And thank you very much, but Dean Winchester does NOT appreciate his life having a soundtrack like a freaking chick flick, even it's starting to resemble one.

Partnered by K_K_TiBal (28k)

Dean didn't think that his life as a detective could get much worse after Castiel was promoted to lieutenant.

Castiel was a stickler for the rules, had no sense of humour, and never seemed to give Dean a break, even though they used to be partners.

But then, despite all of their questionable history, the two are asked to go undercover on a case in the wealthy suburbs of California. . . as a married couple.

Darkly Dreaming Dean by Duckyboos (29k)

Dean Winchester has the perfect apple pie life with his shy-but-sweet boyfriend in the suburbs. He has a steady, well-paid job with the LAPD and he’s charming and attractive.

Really, he’s living the American Dream.

It’s his extra-curricular activities that some may disagree with, as he’s also an accomplished serial killer.

To date, his kills amount to around 36 and he’s never been caught. He’s employed by the law, remember? He knows how these things work.

A new serial killer arrives on the scene and despite the sloppiness of their work, Dean is intrigued by them and what they're trying to achieve, because their MO is the same as his; killing bad people.

He makes it his mission to track the other killer down before the police do, and he’s left reeling when the 'Basin Vigilante' turns out to be someone a lot closer to home than he could have ever imagined.

Stand By Me by whelvenwings (31k)

Dean Winchester has been alone for a long, long time.

When he and Castiel happen to find each other - a couple of survivors in a world that’s been all but wiped clean - Dean’s looking for his brother; Castiel is looking for something to look for. They stick together, because neither of them much wants to be alone. They hate each other at first, of course. Dean hates Castiel for being weird and quiet and ironic and antagonistic and proud. Castiel hates Dean for being blunt and reckless and coarse, for drinking, for refusing to talk about how he feels and just pretending everything is fine. Most of all, they hate themselves and each other just for being alive. What right do they have to be alive? No one else seems to be.

But against his own will, Dean starts to notice things about Castiel that he likes. Starts to hope that Castiel might like him, too. And together, they start to fight for a world where they're both alive - and that's a good thing.

the inexhaustible silence of houses by Askance (31k)

Almost two years after the world doesn't end, Castiel falls from grace—and loses his voice in the process. It is the impetus for confession and change; before long, he is settling into a loving relationship with Dean, the Winchesters are tired, and hunting for a place to land has taken precedence to hunting anything else. Dean and Castiel fall in love with the strange little house on the end of Swallowtail Drive, and for a little while life is as it should be—sweet, affectionate, and beginning afresh.

But more and more Castiel sees and hears things in the house that beg the question of whether or not a place itself can be alive. The walls and rooms seem to shift and grow and breathe, and one night, Dean comes home from a hunt changed in a way that Castiel cannot explain. In the months that follow, their domestic bliss takes turns for the dark and sour, and the confusion of their circumstances will ultimately test everything Castiel knows about the man he loves, and everything he believes to be true.

flowers in the backyard by justkeeponwriting  (34k)

After Uncle Bobby’s death, Dean goes to check up on the cabin that he’s inherited. Dean hasn’t been at the cabin for years, but he knows Bobby hasn’t renovated it in ages, so he isn’t very thrilled to be saddled with it. Upon arrival, he notices that unlike he expected, it’s not unoccupied, nor falling apart – instead, a stranger called Castiel has made it into his home.

Just Like You by imherecauseimnotallthere98 (35k)

When John shows up at their door in the middle of the night, the Winchesters and Cas start looking into who or what could have brought him back. Meanwhile, Dean struggles to keep his relationship with Cas a secret from his father, with some help from Sam. The tension rises between the Winchesters as Dean shows John that he is no longer the obedient little soldier he once was, and tries to establish himself as an equal with his dad.

999 Days From Now by RebelSpaceOddity (35k)

An AU in which a recovered alcoholic Dean owns a diner, Sam is in law school and is clueless about the way Jess looks at him, and Cas? Well, Cas turns Dean’s world upside down and maybe, just maybe, gives him a reason to have a little faith.

The love of a lifetime told in a heartbeat.

Seeking Friendship by mnwood (36k)

The information pops up in Castiel’s head as if he’s reading it on his computer screen right in front of him. He had come across Dean’s dating profile the very day he made his own three months ago. He must’ve looked at 20 or 30 different profiles that day, but Dean’s was the only one that kept replaying over and over in his head for a week after. "Dean W., seeking friendship."

Rewriting the Book by MonPetitTresor (37k)

When Sam gets a little too close to stopping Metatron’s plans, the angel decides to use some of his extra juice to get Sam out of his way by sending him to a completely different reality. He never could’ve predicted what Sam might find there – or what he might bring back home with him.

'Star Wars is Overrated' by leftdragonpainter (38k)

When Dean Winchester turned sixteen he was disappointed by the words that appeared on his chest. He never expected that it would take so much to find his soulmate. He never expected to not remember meeting them...

What Holds Us Up by frecklesarechocolate (39k)

What happens when John Winchester suddenly comes back to life, and meets the boys as they are today?

Just Your Heart, In Exchange For Mine by noxsoulmate (46k)

Dean owns a bakery and Castiel loves his pie. This could be such a cute little bakery love story – if it weren’t for the fact that one was a retired hunter and the other one a powerful witch. There’s also the matter of the black little cat Dean finds in front of his bakery one cold and rainy night. Not to forget the crazy witch on the loose, ripping out other witches’ hearts.

Sleepless in Lawrence, Kansas by PrinceMalice (50k)

“Um, yes, hi. My name is Sam and I’m calling from Lawrence, Kansas.”

A new voice... Castiel loved new voices. They always had new stories to tell.

“Kansas… well, it’s not really midnight down there, is it? What keeps you up?” he asked.

“I’m worried about my brother, Dean.”

And that's it! Thank you for bearing with me splitting this up into three posts. And, as always, thank you to all the brilliant authors who shared their fics with us!

If there is ever a fic rec list you would like me to make (or you just want to chat), please feel free to drop me a message or an ask! And I wish you all a very happy new year :D

[likelightinglass]

10 Lines Tagging Game

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway!

Thank you for the tag @givereadersahug ! My last 10 fics first lines game, starting with the oldest and going up to most recent. I cheated because it's really first paragraphs, not first lines. It's so funny to me how wildly different some of these are from each other in tone and rating and everything.

1. And What Do We Think We Might See? (G, 771, Snape & Sinistra, platonic)

It’s a little past three in the morning, and Severus hasn’t slept in weeks.

Not properly anyway, not this year. He might be Headmaster of this school but he’s never felt quite so out of control. He appears to run a tight ship, of course, keeping the students as safe as possible while somehow giving the impression that he revels in his colleagues’ and pupils' estimation of him, that he is a traitor, monster, murderer. Playing both sides and trying to stay afloat as he buys the boy who lived more time to run Dumbledore’s errands.

2. Snake as a Second Language (G, 4k, Snarry but Ron Centric)

Ron had a secret.

A deep, dark secret he knew never to share, not with his Gryffindor parents or Gryffindor siblings, not with his Gryffindor best friends, and certainly not with anyone at school, surrounded by all those slimy Slytherins.

And that was that Ronald Bilius Weasley loved snakes.

3. Once Upon a Time (G, 1k, Snarry)

Harry's gaze swept over the now neat and tidy kitchen, appraising its cleanliness. This room was his domain ever since he and Severus had moved in together, and despite his haphazard approach to most chores, tidying up after meals was ingrained in him since his childhood at the Dursleys.

But all traces of "breakfast for dinner" were gone, leftover biscuits were packed away for tomorrow and he was ready to go upstairs and check on the kids. Ron and Hermione were away for the weekend and Teddy was delighted that Rose was over for an extended sleepover.

4. In which Severus is stressed and needs Daddy to treat him like a dumb little cumdump. We're both gay and obsessed with tender, intimate kink; moved, we wrote this fanfic (E, 18k, Snarry)

Severus awoke that morning with a crick in his back, and a grouchy demeanour. It was Saturday, which meant all of the demands of a weekday, minus the promise of structure, of a clear end to the work to be done.

5. Best Friends (G, 686, Lily & Severus)

Severus had finally found a nice, quiet place to properly sulk. It shouldn't have been nearly this difficult, he thought with a scowl, particularly in a castle that was so enormous. He was always surrounded by people now: dormmates, students, teachers. Even ghosts!

6. Obedience Lessons (E, 7k, Snarry)

Severus shifted in his seat, sweat beading on his forehead as he took another deep breath, attempting to steady himself. He was uncomfortably warm all over, his clothes seemed stifling and itchy and it was all he could do not to rend his robes in two and fling them away from his overheated body.

7. Waiting Games (E, 2k, Snarry)

Harry stared into the refrigerator, mulling over whether a ham sandwich or leftover beef lo mein sounded better for lunch. Severus hated it when he let all the cold out while deciding on his options, but Severus was not here at the moment to express his displeasure at the bad habit, so Harry took as long as he wanted.

8. More Than Dark (E, 28k/WiP, Snarry)

Many years later, when the cold and dark and misery of Azkaban had been replaced with warmth and light and love, Severus Snape would think back on the coldest night in his first year in prison, and would decide that was when he'd first started to break.

9. An auror, a professor, and a potioneer walk into a bar. (M, 4k, Severus/Harry/Tonks

An auror, a professor, and a potioneer are celebrating at a pub.

There's a practiced ease to the way the three of them are sitting at their regular table shoved into the corner of the Three Broomsticks. The Auror is laughing at her own joke, body tilted towards the other two and head close as if sharing a secret. The Professor has one leg twisted around the Potioneer's underneath the table and the other propped up against the Auror's chair. The Potioneer is trying hard not to smile at them both and he's not succeeding.

10. This Mirrored Perspective (E, 7k, Severus/Harry/Tonks but technically Solo Severus lol)

He's had the fantasy for a long time, almost since he discovered wanking. Once he realized that rubbing his hard cock felt so good, since that first surprise of orgasm washed over him with a gasp, that dizzying rush of endorphins, it had been there, in the back of his mind.

That nagging sense that he didn't deserve it.

Tagging @bleedcolor @perverse-idyll @danpuff-ao3 @liladiurne @perfackles @ripeteeth @anti-bright-places @mia-ugly and anyone else who wants to do it!

[dangerouslyclassyhottub]

Hello! Not sure if you're still taking these, so please feel free to ignore if you're not!

💝🤍🎀

Ooo I actually wasn't anticipating a response lol I hadn't even read all of them XD Lets seeeee

💝what is a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

tbh I never know what to expect when posting a fic. I think the one that surprised me the most is the one I'm working on now, "Whoops". I had assumed Starjack was kind of a rarepair, since it hasn't gotten a lot of love in a while. Plus the g1 nature of the pairing made me feel like people wouldn't like it for some reason lol. But its almost completely overshadowed Taking it Further, beating it in almost every stat, I mean it has half the amount of chapters as TIF but it has 18k views compared to TIF which ENDED it's run at 10k lmao y'all really like Starjack XD

🤍what's one fic of yours you think people didn't "get"?

oof thats a toughie, I feel like it's more on my own writing style if people don't 'get' my fics. If I'm not clear enough or if my writing just isn't good enough then I'll lose people. Maybe my pacing is off or the characters aren't just right, there's a lot of places where I can lose people and fic is very personal. I'd say the one I put the most heart into and just didn't quite nab readers attention with was Unintended Consequences. I was going for a slice of life turned into a thriller but I think I just over embellished in places that didn't need it and its made it into a monster of a fic lmao. I'm glad for the people who have enjoyed it though AND I promise I will finish it lmao

🎀give yourself a compliment about your own writing

hmmmmmmm, idk I do words good? lol I have heard I'm really good at introspection for characters so let's go with that, it's one of the things I work the hardest on.

Thanks for the asks! these were fun :D

[butterlaneantiques]

Art Nouveau French 18k Gold & Diamond "Chimera" Ring

In Greek Mythology, Chimera was a monstrous fire-breathing hybrid creature. It has the body and head of a lion, a goat's head rising from its back, the udders of a goat, and a serpent for a tail. It was the terrifying offspring of Typhoeus and Echidna.

Typhoeus, known as the father of all monsters and was depicted as half man half snake. His top half was "human" like but he had two coiled serpents in place of legs. He could breathe fire and he attempted to overthrow Zeus for the supremacy of the cosmos- to put a long story short, Zeus won. Echidna was a monstrous she-dragon with the head of a woman and the tail of a coiling serpent. She embodied the terrifying and the unknown and passed this onto her offspring. 

Greek hero, Bellerophon set out to slay Chimera, and on his way to find the best, he meets a seer who tells him he’ll need the winged-horse Pegasus on his journey. As he approaches Chimera, he attaches a block of lead to the tip of his spear and uses it as a shield, until charges at Chimera and jams the lead block down the beast’s throat. 

This At Nouveau French made ring depicts the beast Chimera, it's whole body creating the band of the ring. The head depicts the beasts head, "protecting" a diamond below it's foot. It's crafted in 18k yellow gold throughout, and features French marks.